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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 





























ONLY 38 


By A. E. THOMAS 



SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-30 Wert 38th St, New York 



The Touch-Down 

A comedy in four acts, by Marion Short. 8 males, 6 females, but 
any number of characters can be introduced in the ensembles. Cos- 
tumes modern. One interior scene throughout the play. Time, 2f4 
hours. 

This play, written for the use of clever amateurs, is the story of 
life in Siddell, a Pennsylvania co educational college. It deals with 
the vicissitudes and final triumph of the Siddell Football Eleven, and 
the humorous and dramatic incidents connected therewith. 

"The Touch-Down” has the true varsity atmosphere, college songs 
are sung, and the piece is lively and entertaining throughout. High 
schools will make no mistake in producing this play. We strongly 
recommend it as a high-class and well-written comedy. 

Price, 30 Cents* 

Hurry, Hurry, Hurry 

A comedy in three acts, by LeRoy Arnold. 5 males, 4 females. 
One interior scene. Costumes modern. Plays 2J4 hours. 

The story is based on the will of an eccentric aunt. It stipulates 
that her pretty niece must be affianced before she is twanty-one, and 
married to her fiance within a year, if she is to get her spinster 
relative’s million. Father has nice notions of honor and fails to tell 
daughter about the will, so that she may make her choice untram- 
meled by any other consideration than that of true love. The action 
all takes place in the evening the midnight of which will see her 
reach twenty-one. Time is therefore short, and it is hurry, hurry, 
- hurry, if she is to become engaged and thus save her father from 
impending bankruptcy. 

The situations are intrinsically funny and the dialogue is sprightly. 
The characters are natural and unaffected and the action moves with 
a snap such as should be expected from its title. Price, 30 Cents. 

The Varsity Coach 

A three-act play of college life, by Marion Short, specially adapted 
to performance by amateurs or high school students. 5 males 6 
females, but any number of boys and girls may be introduced in the 
action of the play. Two settings necessary, a college boy’s room and 
the university campus. Time, about 2 hours. 

Like many another college boy, "Bob” Selby, an all-round popular 
college man, becomes possessed of the idea that athletic prowess is 
more to be desired than scholarship. He is surprised in the midst of 
a "spread” in his room in Regatta week by a visit from his aunt 
who is putting him through college. Aunt Serena, "a lady of the old 
school and the dearest little woman in the whole world,” has hastened 
to make this visit to her adored nephew under the mistaken impression 
that he is about to receive the Fellowes prize for scholarship. Her 
grief and chagrin when she learns that instead of the prize Robert 
has received "a pink card,” which is equivalent to suspension for poor 
scholarship, gives a touch of pathos to an otherwise jolly comedy of 
eollege life. How the repentant Robert more than redeems himself, 
carries off honors at the last, and in the end wins Ruth, the faithful 
little sweetheart of the "Prem” and the classroom, makes a story of 
dramatic interest and brings out very clearly certain phases of modern 
eollege life. There are several opportunities for the introduction of 
•ottcge songs and "stunts.” Price, 30 Cents. 

(The Above Are Subject to Royalty When Produced) 


SAMUEL FRENCH, 3S-30 West &ith Street, New Yertc City 

Ihf aid Explicit DsscriptWa Catalogue Malted Frsr oc Daqaesl 


s± 

!Tl(o 


J 

ONLY 38 


A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 


BY 

A. E. THOMAS 

U 


SUGGESTED BY A SHORT STORY 
WALTER PRICHARD EATON 



All Rights Reserved 


CAUTION. — Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned 
that “ONLY 38,” being fully protected under the copy- 
right laws of the United States of America and Great 
Britain, is subject to a royalty, and anyone presenting 
the play without the consent of the author or his author- 
ized agents will be liable to the penalties by law provided. 
Applications for the acting rights must be made to Samuel 
French, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York, N. Y. 


New York 
SAMUEL FRENCH 
Publisher 

28-30 West 38th Street 


London 

SAMUEL FRENCH 
26 Southampton Street 
STRAND 




-p<=>^S3^ 

Copyright, 1922, by Samuel French 

;~£zi±_i zy 

Especial notice should be taken that the possession of 
this book without a valid contract for production first 
having been obtained from the publisher, confers no right 
or license to professionals or amateurs to produce the play 
publicly or in private for gain or charity. 

In its present form this play is dedicated to the reading 
public only, and no performance, representation, produc- 
tion, recitation, or public reading may be given except by 
special arrangement with Samuel French, 28-30 West ,38th 
Street, New York. 

This play may be presented by amateurs upon payment 
of a royalty of Twenty-Five Dollars for each perform- 
ance, payable to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38th Street, 

New York, one week before the date when the play is 
given. 

Whenever the play is produced the following notice must 
appear on all programs, minting and advertising for the 
play : “Produced by special arrangement with Samuel 
French of New York.” 

Attention is called to the penalty provided by law for 
any infringement of the author’s rights, as follows. 

“Section 4966: — Any person publicly performing or rep- 
resenting any dramatic or musical composition for which 
copyright has been obtained, without the consent of the 
proprietor of said dramatic or musical composition, or his 
heirs and assigns, shall be liable for damages thereof, 
such damages, in all cases to be assessed at such sum, not 
less than one hundred dollars for the first and fifty dol- 
lars for every subsequent performance, as to the court 
shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance and 
representation be wilful and for profit, such person or 
persons shall be^ guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon con- 
viction shall be imprisoned for a period not exceeding one 
year .” — U. S. Revised Statutes : Title 60, Chap. 3. 


©RI.D 63031 

DEC -8 72 





The following is a copy of the playbill of the first per- 
formance of “ONLY 38 ” at the Cort Theatre, New York, 
Tuesday evening, September 13 , 1921 : 

MR. SAM H. HARRIS 


PRESENTS 


ONLY 38 

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
BY 

A. E. THOMAS 

Suggested by a short story by 
WALTER PRICHARD EATON 
{Staged under the direction of Sam Forrest) 


CAST OF CHARACTERS 


Mrs. Stanley 

Mrs. Newcomb . . . 

Mrs. Peters 

Mr. Sanborn 

Robert Stanley . . 

Lucy Stanley 

Mary Hadley 

Sydney Johnson . . 
Professor Giddings 
Jimmy L 

Charley f 

Alice 


Mary Ryan 

. . . Helen Van Hoose 

Kate Mayhew 

Percy Pollock 

Neil Martin 

Ruth Mero 

Margaret Shackleford 
...Leon Cunningham 
. . . Harry C. Browne 

. . Friends of Sydney 

. . . . Friend of Lucy 


SYNNOPSIS OF SCENES 


ACT I — Library of the Parsonage. 

ACT II — Living room in Mrs. Stanley's cottage. 
ACT III — Same scene. 


3 













CAST OF CHARACTERS 


Mr. Sanborn, 65. 
Professor Giddings, 40. 
Robert Stanley, 18 . . . 
Sydney Johnson, 18 . . 

Jimmy, 18 

Charlie, 18 

Mrs. Stanley, 38 

Lucy, 18 

Mrs. Newcomb, 60 . . | 

Mrs. Peters, 55 

Alice, 18 

Mary, 18 


.... Mrs. Stanley's son 

Robert's Chum 

Sydney's Friend 

Sydney's Friend 

. . . Sanborn's Daughter 
Mrs. Stanley's Daughter 
Members of the late 
Rev. Stanley's Church 

' * > Friends of Lucy's 


5 







ONLY 38 


ACT I 

Scene: Library of the Parsonage. Fireplace r. 
Writing-table and chair in front of it. Black 
walnut bookcases around the walls. Great gaps 
are shown in the shelves where books have been 
removed. In the middle of the floor is a big 
heap of books that have been taken from the 
shelves. Against the writing-desk, several 
framed pictures, just taken from the walls, are 
standing. On a small table at rear, is a “Roger’s 
Group” — “Evening Prayer” — a small boy kneel- 
ing at his mother’s knee, her hand upraised 
in benediction above his head. One picture still 
hangs upon the wall. It is a picture of an old 
man — a print more or less suggestive of New 
England ecclesiastical history. There is also 
a sofa r. covered with horse-hair. The fur- 
nishings are all of that stiff mid-Victorian sort 
which have done so much to make vice attrac- 
tive. 

At Rise : Discovered : Mrs. Stanley. Though she 
is only 38 and her hair is still yellow, she never- 
theless conveys an impression of middle age. 
She is dressed in black, neatly enough, but with 
not the least attempt to make the most of what- 
ever physical advantages she possesses. She 
7 


8 


ONLY 38 

wears a dust cap, in one hand she holds 
a dust-pan — in the other a dust-brush. She 
sighs a little as she glances from the book- 
cases to the heap of books and back again. Sud- 
denly the door bell rings. She starts and hesi- 
tates, then she drops the dust-brush into the 
scrap basket. For a moment she can’t think 
what to do with the dust-pan ; first she puts it 
on the desk, then thinks that won’t do, and has- 
tily thrusts the dust-pan under one of the rag 
rugs that decorate, in a manner of speaking, 
the floor. This done, she leaves the room by 
the door at rear, l.c. She is heard greeting 
her visitors in the hall and presently returns 
with them. The two newcomers are both 
women. One of them, Mrs. Newcomb, is a 
tall, angular, pious, vinegary female of 60. 
Her companion, Mrs. Peters, is short, stout 
and amiable though constantly dominated by her 
more aggressive friend. 

Mr. Newcomb. We just dropped in, Sister Stan- 
ley, to see if we could be any help to ye about yer 
movin'. 

Mrs. Peters. Yes — yes — about your movin'. 
Mrs. Stanley. Well, now I call that right kind 
of you, Mrs. Newcomb — and you too, Mrs. Peters. 

Mrs. Newcomb. (Deprecatingly) No — no — not 
a bit — not a bit. 

Mrs. Peters. No, not a bit. 

Mrs. Newcomb. No. You’re just a poor lone 
widder woman an’ there’s no knowin’ just when it 
might please an all-wise Providence to afflict us 
likewise. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, I’m not quite alone. I have 
the twins, you know. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Well, after all, they’re nothin’ 



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ONLY 38 9 

but children and children’s so thoughtless. I s’pose 
they can’t help it. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, they’re very good to their 
mother. But do sit down — please do. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Well, I don’t care if I do — just 
for a minute. (They sit down.) 

Mrs. Peters Just for a minute. 

Mrs. Newcomb. What you doin’ with the books? 
(Indicating the heap on the floor.) 

Mrs. Peters. Yes — what you doin’ with the 

books ? 

Mrs. Stanley. Why, I’ve just been — well — sort- 
ing them out. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Sorting ’em out? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — you know I haven’t much 
room in that little house I’m moving to next week 
and I’ve got to give some of the books away. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Give the Reverend Mr. Stan- 
ley’s books away? 

Mrs. Peters. Give them away? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, I hate to do it, of course, but 
what else can I do with them? 

Mrs. Newcomb. Who ye goin’ to give ’em to? 

Mrs. Peters. Yes, who ye goin’ to give ’em to? 

Mrs. Stanley. Why, I had thought of giving 
them to the Public Library. 

Mrs. Newcomb. (Goes to the heap and picks 
one up) Humph! They’re terrible dusty. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, aren’t they? 

Mrs. Newcomb. (Rising) Give us some dust- 
rags, and I and Sister Peters’ll help ye. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, would you? 

Mrs. Newcomb. Might’s well, long’s we’re here. 

Mrs. Peters. Yes — long’s we’re here. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Picks up a big dust-rag from 
the desk — tears it into three pieces and distributes 
them) Well, I must say that’s right kind of you. 


10 


ONLY 38 

Mrs. Newcomb. (Going to work) Alius try to 
keep busy. Satan finds some mischief still for idle 
hands to do. 

Mrs. Peters. Yes — for idle hands to do. 

Mrs. Newcomb. (Holding up a huge hook) 
“Cragin’s Concordance of the Holy Scriptures” — 
hum ! Always wanted a Concordance. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, Mrs. Newcomb, Pd be so 
pleased if you’d accept it as a gift. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Oh — no — no — really now 

Mrs. Stanley. As a — well, as a sort of keepsake 
of my husband. I’m sure he’d like it so much. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Well, if you’ve got your mind 
all made up, you don’t want it 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes, I have. 

Mrs. Newcomb. I s’pose I might’s well git it as 
the Public Library. 

Mrs. Stanley. And you must take something, 
too, Mrs. Peters — any book you like. 

Mrs. Peters. D’yer s’pose you got any sermons by 
the Rev. Dr. Charles H. Spalding? 

Mrs. Stanley. I think so. . Let’s see. 

Mrs. Peters. That’s Dr. Spaulding’s picture, 
ain’t it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Pretty man, wasn’t he? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes — here’s one. Would you 
like that? 

Mrs. Peters. (Taking the hook) Yes, Mis’ 
Stanley, I certainly would. I heard him preach 
once. I was on my weddin’ trip to Boston. I can 
remember the text right now. 

Mrs. Stanley. My husband was a great admirer 
of Dr. Spalding’s sermons. 

Mrs. Newcomb. (As the women go on dusting 
the books) Goin’ to come kind of hard on you to 
pay rent, I should guess. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes. 


ONLY 38 11 

Mrs. Newcomb. After livin’ rent free all these 
years in the parsonage. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — these last twelve years. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Still, we got to have some place 
for the new minister. 

Mrs. Peters. Yes, for the new minister. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, I can’t complain. It was 
mighty kind of the church to let me stay on here 
these last few months. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Good thing your boy’n girl’s 
just finishin’ their schoolin’. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, I’m grateful for that, too. 
I had hoped, if their father lived, but no matter — 
they’ve had more schooling than their mother ever 
had. 

Mrs. Newcomb. They’d ought to be a great help 

to ye, one way’n another. Though I must say 

(She sneezes violently.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m afraid 
they haven’t been dusted recently. 

Mrs. Newcomb. (Crosses to r.J ’Tain’t no mat- 
ter, only when I get sneezin’ sometimes I can’t stop. 
Sometimes I go right on for half a day. (She sneezes 
again.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Perhaps you’d better stop dust- 
ing. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Lord, no! Don’t do me no 
harm. Just kind of annoyin’. (She sneezes again.) 
Does seem strange the Lord should have seen fit 
to take Mr. Stanley to Himself. He wasn’t so very 
old. 

Mrs. Stanley. Only sixty-one. 

Mrs Newcomb. You was his second wife, wasn’t 
you? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Hm! Can’t help wonderin’ 
whether he’s met his first wife again and what he 
said to her about you. 


12 ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. (Rather shocked) Mrs. New- 
comb ! 

Mrs. Newcomb. I s’pose I do git some queer 

ideas now an’ then (Door hell rings.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Excuse me till I see who it is. 

(She goes out. The two women go on dusting. 
Mrs. Newcomb sneezes again.) 

Mrs. Peters. Mis’ Stanley's bearin' up well. 
Wonder how she’s goin' to git along? 

Mrs. Newcomb. Well, she’s young. I can re- 
member her when she fust come here — pretty young 
thing, she was — just a leetle might too pretty for a 
minister’s wife, if you ask me. Not that the Rev- 
erend Stanley ever noticed that, I guess. But others 
did. 

Mrs. Peters. Mis’ Newcomb! You don’t 
mean ? 

Mrs. Newcomb. Oh — no — no — she’s a good 

woman — just a mite triflin’, that’s all. 

('Mrs. Stanley returns with Mr. Sanborn, a slim 
little man of some sixty odd years — a farmer 
who to-day is wearing the store clothes that men 
of his kind put on when they go to the nearest 
metropolis for a visit.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Mrs. Newcomb, this is my 
father, Mr. Sanborn. 

Sanborn. How’d’ye do, ma’am. I hope I see 
you well. 

('Mrs. Newcomb answers with a resounding sneeze.) 

Mrs. Stanley. This is Mrs. Peters, father. 

Mrs. Peters. Pleased to meet ye. 

Sanborn. Mrs. Peters, I hope you’re feelin’ as 
well as you look, ma’am. 


ONLY 38 13 

Mrs. Peters. (Affected by this gallantry) Oh, 
I’m fine, I thank you. 

Sanborn. Your friend seems to have an awful 
cold. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Oh, no, I ain’t got any cold. 
I just got a way of sneezin’ sometimes. I dunno 

what does it, but the fact of the matter is — I 

( She concludes her remarks with another sneeze.) 

Mrs. Peters. P’r’aps we’d better be goin’, Ma- 
tilda. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, please don’t hurry. 

Mrs. Newcomb. Might’s well, I guess. I’ll 
probably sneeze all day. Let us know if we can 
do anythin’, Mis’ Stanley. Could I have my book 
now? Good afternoon, Mr. Sanborn. Hope to see 
you again some time when I ain’t (Sneezes.) 

Sanborn. Thank ye, ma’am. 

Mrs. Peters. I think I used to know your sis- 
ter, Jennie, Mr. Sanborn. She’n I went to school 

together up in (Another vast sneeze from Mrs. 

Newcomb.J She’n I went to school together when 

we was — both girls up in (Another sneeze from 

Mrs. Newcomb drowns her.) I guess it ain’t any 
use tryin’ to talk. 

Sanborn. (To Mrs. NewcombJ Why don’t ye 
try rubbin’ yer nose? 

Mrs. Newcomb. Don’t do a bit o’ good. ’Sail 
right for some, I s’pose, but when I get started 
sneezin’ I jest got to sneeze myself out. Just seems 
like I 

(Again the fit takes her. Her eyes are now nearly 
blinded with tears. Helplessly she beckons to 
Mrs. Peters and the two take themselves off , 
followed by Mrs. Stanley. The explosion con- 
tinues until the outside door finally closes be- 
hind the sufferer. Left to himself, the old man 


14 


ONLY 38 

prowls around the room for a moment , taking 
a special interest in “The Evening Prayer ? * — 
apparently a slightly humorous interest . In a 
moment or two his daughter returns.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, father, anything wrong at 
home? 

Sanborn. No — no — everything’s bout as common. 

Mrs. Stanley. Why didn’t you write me you 
were coming? 

Sanborn. Didn’t know it myself. Had to run 
up to Hampshire on some business an’ jus’ took a 
notion I’d come down here an’ see how you’re get- 
tin’ along. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, we’re all right. 

Sanborn. Movin’ next week — be ye? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — next week. 

Sanborn. Come kind of hard to leave the old 
shack, won’t it? 

Mrs. Stanley. It’ll come kind of hard to have 
to pay rent for the new shack. 

Sanborn. (Sits couch r. Mrs. Stanley rises 
from books c.) Yes, I s’pose so. Nellie, sit down a 
minute. I want to talk to you. (He sits dorvn on 
the sofa and nurses one knee.) Nellie, just how’re 
you fixed? 

Mrs. Stanley. (Sits armchair r.c.) I’ve got 
the two thousand dollars from the life insurance 
policy and three hundred and eighty-five dollars in 
cash. 

Sanborn. Anything else? 

Mrs. Stanley. No — that’s all. 

Sanborn. Two hundred and eighty-five? 

Mrs. Stanley. Three hundred and eighty-five, 
father. 

Sanborn. Well, if you put that with the insur- 
ance money in a savings bank, that’ll bring you about 


ONLY 38 15 

ninety dollars a year interest. That ain’t a whole 
lot for a family of three. 

Mrs. Stanley. No — it isn’t — thirty dollars apiece. 

Sanborn. What ye goin’ to do? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, I’ll get along somehow. Bob 
is going to get a job with the telephone company 
keeping books and Lucy wants to teach school — oh, 
we’ll manage somehow. 

Sanborn. Of course you can always come home. 

Mrs. Stanley. I know that, father, dear. But 
I’d rather keep my own little roof over our heads, 
if I can. 

Sanborn. Don’t blame ye a mite. ’Tain’t very 
gay at the old place — not since your mother died — 
a good woman, your mother was — but serious — 
serious — and pious. Terrible worried about my soul, 
she was. 

Mrs. Stanley. She never gave up hope for you, 
did she? 

Sanborn. No — alius kep’ on a-prayin’ that the 
Holy Spirit would convict me o’ sin. 

Mrs. Stanley. But it never has. 

Sanborn. No — I guess I’m still un-re-gen-erate 
— I must confess I still like a little game o’ high, 
low, Jack now an’ then — and a little cider, and if 
it’s the least might hard — well, it don’t annoy me 
much. I guess I’m just naturally predestined for 
Hell-fire. 

Mrs. Stanley. Don’t you go to church at all, any 
more? 

Sanborn. Yes — now’n then. When I want to 
take a good nap. Don’t s’pose you got any cider in 
the house, hev ye? 

Mrs. Stanley. Father! And me a minister’s 
widow. 

Sanborn. By gum! Can’t seem to get used to 
that. Funny thing your marryin’ the Reverend 
Eben — old ’nough to be your father, he was. 


16 ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. He was a good man, father. 

Sanborn. Oh, yes — so was Methusaleh, I guess. 
Yes, he was a good man — but, gosh ! He must have 
made things dull fer ye. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father! 

Sanborn. Shucks! He’s dead an’ gone. What’d 
yer mother used to call it ? Gathered to his fathers. 
I never could understand it. You was alius such a 
bright, happy little thing — alius singin’ around the 
house — and then you go an’ marry this solemn old 
feller — well, anyway your mother was pleased. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, mother was pleased. 

Sanborn. Hope she still is. Well, I s’pose 
you’ll be marryin’ again soon. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father ! 

Sanborn. Ain’t no law again it that I know of. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Rises. Crosses to table l.cJ 
I wish you wouldn’t talk about it. 

Sanborn. (Rises and goes to books c.) All right. 
All right. Don’t get het up. Where’s the chil- 
dren? 

Mrs. Stanley. They’re not home from school 
yet. 

Sanborn. Nice children you’ve got, Nellie. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, they’re dears — both of them. 

Sanborn. Ain’t much alike though, not fer twins. 
What ye goin’ to do with them things? 

Mrs. Stanley. I’m going to give them to the 
Public Library. 

Sanborn. (Picking a book up from the heap ) 
Well, that’s a good place for ’em, I guess. Ser- 
mons, ain’t they? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, a good many of them. 

Sanborn. Always did wonder how a parson could 
grind out a sermon every week. An’ now I know 
they don’t. They steal ’em from other parsons. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father, you mustn’t say that. My 
husband would never have done that. 



Only 38” See page 13 















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1 7 


ONLY 38 

Sanborn. Then what in time- 

Mrs. Stanley. He used to read other men’s ser- 
mons just for inspiration. You really mustn’t 

Sanborn. All right. All right. Don’t get het 
up about it. I s’pose the Reverend Eben wrote a 
power o’ sermons himself. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes. 

Sanborn. Where be they? 

Mrs. Stanley. They’re down cellar in a barrel. 

Sanborn. Forty years o’ preaching down cellar 
in a barrel ! Hum ! Kind of makes a man scratch 
his head, don’t it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, father, his life wasn’t all 
sermons — visiting the sick — comforting the bereaved 
— oh — he did a great deal of good. 

Sanborn. Well, I hope so; I hope so. An’ be- 
sides that he left his widder two children an’ ninety 
dollars a year. Well, the Lord don’t overpay his 
servants. (Crosses to rJ 

Mrs. Stanley, (l.) There are better things in 
life than money, father. 

Sanborn. ( r.u.J So there be, Nellie, so there be, 
and a darn good thing for you, too, eh? (Indicat- 
ing the Rogers Group.) What ye goin’ to do with 
that thing? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, you mean the family group? 

Sanborn. That what ye call it? 

Mrs. Stanley. ( Crosses to model up r.J I s’pose 
I got to take it with me. 

Sanborn. Don’t ye like it? 

Mrs. Stanley. I hate it. 

Sanborn. Do ye? 

Mrs. Stanley. ( Crosses to r.u .) Yes — it’s so — 
so fearfully ugly. 

Sanborn. Well, well— ye can give it away, can’t 
ye ? 

Mrs. Stanley. No, I’m afraid not. You see, the 
church gave it to Mr. Stanley on his tenth anni- 


18 ONLY 38 

versary as pastor. No, it wouldn’t do. As long as 
I live in this town, I’ll have to keep it. Oh, how I 
hate it! (She gives it an angry flip with her dust- 
cloth. Crosses down l.c.J 

Sanborn. Tut! Tut! Tut! Nellie. Let not your 
angry passions rise. (A pause.) Nellie, you know 
what I’m goin’ to do? I’m goin’ to smoke a see- 
gar. (He takes one carefully from his pocket.) 

Mrs. Stanley, (l.c.) All right, father. 

Sanborn. Is that the way ye take it? 

Mrs. Stanley. (Busy again about the dusting) 
How did you think I’d take it? 

Sanborn. I kinda thought ye’d kick. The Rev- 
erend Eben was terrible down on terbaccer. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — he was — but I rather like 
the smell of it. 

Sanborn. Do ye, now? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — that was the only nice thing 
about being sick. Old Dr. Chase used to smell so 
of cigar smoke. (Crosses down l.) 

Sanborn. (Sits armchair r.c.J Gosh! Beats all 
how little a feller can know about his own flesh 
an’ blood. Nellie, you’n me’s got to git better ac- 
quainted. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father! 

Sanborn. Well, we would a been too, only — 
honest Injun. Reverend Eben — well, I never could 
come into this house without kind of gettin’ a chill. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father ! 

Sanborn. Well, you can’t tell me, Nellie, ’t you 
ain’t felt like that yourself now an’ then. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Crosses to Sanborn, r.c.) 
Father, you mustn’t go on like this. Mr. Stanley 
was a good man, whatever his faults may have 
been — and what’s more, he was my husband and the 
father of my children. (Crosses to R.i.j 

Sanborn. Yep, I s’pose so (Lights match.) 

But somehow or other he used to freeze me up. I 


ONLY 38 19 

never could act natural nowheres around him. (He 
strikes a match, lights the cigar and blows out a cloud 
of smoke. Mrs. Stanley goes up r. and around be- 
hind to R.cJ Like it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — it’s very pleasant. 

Sanborn. (Looking at the band on the cigar) 
Ought to be. That’s a Lillian Russell. Actress, 
ain’t she? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — I believe so. 

Sanborn. I’d kind of like to see her some time. 

Mrs. Stanley. Why, father! (Puts books on 
table l.c. Goes to father, r.cJ 

Sanborn. Oh, I know — I suppose I’m nothin’ 
but an’ old hayseed that’s s’posed to be thinkin’ 
about nothin’ but cattle an’ hay an’ plowin’ an’ milk- 
in’ from one year’s end to another. 

Mrs. Stanley. Nonsense, father. What 

Sanborn. Well, I’ve been settin’ round the old 
house night times now an’ I’ve been doin’ a lot o’ 
thinking. I’m gettin’ to be an old man. It kind-a 
grinds me to think I ain’t really seen a darned thing. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father, what’s got into you? 

Sanborn. Well, I ain’t. There’s times when I. 
feel like I want to do some travelin’. I want to 
see Lillian Russell, San Francisco, Billy Sunday, 
Madison Square Garden, William Jennings Bryan, 
Niagry Falls, Doctor Parkhurst, Charlie Chaplin, 
Palm Beach, Broadway, Maude Adams, Theda Bara, 
Ethel Barrymore, an’ I don’t know what. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Quite overcome by this out- 
break ) Father ! 

Sanborn. Darned if I don’t. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father I never heard you talk 
like this in all my life. 

Sanborn. No — nor nobody else, neither. Well, 
I’ll take it out in talk, I s’pose. I’m too old to git 
giddy. But if I was twenty years younger though 
I’ll be darned if I wouldn’t shake a leg an’ take 


20 ONLY 38 

a squint at all the glory an’ shame o’ this old 
world. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father, what’s happened to you? 

Sanborn. Not a thing — not a blame thing. That’s 
what I’m hollerin’ about. Nothin’ ever happened to 
me. Nor to you neither. Don’t you never git kind 
of sick of it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, what if I do. We must all 
strive to do our duty in that station in life to which 
it has pleased Providence to call us. 

Sanborn. (Scornfully) Echoes from the Rev- 
erend Eben. ( Rises.) Ain’t ye got any spunk ? 

Mrs. Stanley. Spunk ? 

Sanborn. Yes — ain’t ye got any git up an’ git? 

Mrs. Stanley. (Crosses R.) Father, it’s wrong 
of you to talk to me like this. 

Sanborn. Is it? 

Mrs. Stanley. You know what I am. I’m a 
minister’s widow and the mother of two children. 
There was a time when I might have been some- 
thing else — a trained nurse, or a teacher, or some- 
thing — but now? I shall never be anything else — 
I’ve got to scratch along as I am, and I don’t hardly 
see how I’m going to do that, and for you to come 
putting ideas into my head — like this — well, it 

isn’t ( Sits in chair r.c.) It isn’t kind. (She 

begins to get a little tearful.) 

Sanborn. Well, I’m sorry, Nellie. (Tries to 
comfort her.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, you don’t mean any harm. 
I suppose it’s just because I have had thoughts of 
another kind of life than the one I’ve lived that I 
feel like this. I’ve put those thoughts away — down 
deep in my heart — because I’ve had to — and the 
years have gone by and now I’m a middle-aged 
woman with two grown children — and pretty soon 
my hair’ll be gray. Well, I made my choice — I’ve 
no right to complain — and I don’t. 


ONLY 38 21 

Sanborn. Well, pretty nice children* you’ve got, 
anyway. 

Mrs. Stanley. They’re darlings — no mother ever 
had sweeter children than my Robert and Lucy — 
only I wish their names were different. 

Sanborn. (Sits chair r. of table l.c.) Do ye 
now? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, I wanted to call them Paul 
and Virginia, but their father wouldn’t have it. 
He said it would be too romantic. Of course, that’s 
just why I wanted it. 

Sanborn. Sure. 

Mrs. Stanley. I suppose it’s silly — but I’ve 
thought if they’d been named Paul and Virginia, 
they wouldn’t be quite so matter of fact. 

Sanborn. Uh? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, life’s a very serious matter 
to them — even at their age. They make me mind 
my p’s and q’s, I can tell you. 

Sanborn. Scared of ’em, be ye? 

Mrs. Stanley. Sometimes, just a little. They 
never let me forget the dignity of my position. A 
minister’s widow ! Oh ! 

Sanborn. I s’pose they think you’re ’bout a hun- 
dred years old. 

Mrs. Stanley. Sometimes I seem that old to 
myself. 

Sanborn. Gosh, if that’s how you feel, I’d ought 
to be ashamed I don’t go out and git myself chloro- 
formed. (Puts cigar on table. Takes wallet out.) 
Nellie, I’ve got a little surprise for you. 

Mrs. Stanley. What is it, father ? ( Children are 
heard in the hall.) 

Sanborn. That’s the children now I guess. 

(Enter Bob and Lucy. They are a pair of whole- 
some, good-looking, rather serious minded, 


22 


ONLY 38 

eighteen-year-olds, in considerable danger of 
growing up to be prigs.) 

Lucy. Why, Grandpa! (She gives him a kiss.) 

Bob. Hello, Grandpa ! 

Sanborn. Well, young folks, how be ye? 

Lucy. We’re all right, thanks. 

Sanborn. Here, let’s have a look at ye. Darned if 
ye ain’t growed about a foot since I see ye last. 
(Turns to Bob.J And Rob — how’s the muscle, Rob- 
bie? (He feels of the boy's muscle in his arm.) 

Bob. Oh, all right, I guess. 

Sanborn. Pretty near through school, I s’pose? 

Bob. Yes, only a week more to graduation. 

Sanborn. I s’pose you’ve took ’bout all the prizes 
between you? 

Bob. We don’t know yet. 

Mrs. Stanley. They won’t know till graduation 
day, father. 

Sanborn. Goin’ to speak a piece ? 

Bob. Lucy’s going to read an essay. 

Sanborn. That so? What about? 

Lucy. The poetry of Robert Burns. 

Sanborn. My gracious! Robert Bums! (To 
Mrs. Stanley. J That’s another one o’ them see- 
gar names, ain’t it? (Goes up and down to L. of 
table l.c. Sits.) 

Lucy. ( Crosses to r. to mother ) Mother, you’ve 
gone and taken all those books down and you 
promised you wouldn’t till we could help you. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, I thought I might as well 
make a beginning. 

Lucy. You see, Grandpa, we can’t turn our backs 
on her a minute. (Sits chair r. of table l.c.J 

Bob. (Coming down c.) Mother, you really 
mustn’t. You’ll tire yourself all out 

Mrs. Stanley, Don’t worry. There’s plenty for 
you to do. Suppose you start in by taking down 


ONLY 38 23 

that picture. (She indicates the old man's picture.) 

Bob. Oh, all right ! ( Gets up on chair.) 

Lucy. Be careful, Bob, don’t drop it. 

Bob. Drop it? Why would I drop it? 

Lucy. You’re so careless. 

Bob. (Descending with the picture) Is that so? 

Mrs. Stanley. I was wondering, Bob, if Mr. 
Evans wouldn’t like it to hang on the vestry wall. 

Lucy. Mother, you’re not going to give it away ! 

Mrs. Stanley. (Guiltily) Well, I 

Bob. Mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley. I had thought perhaps it would 
be nice to give it to the Sunday School. 

Lucy. Mother! When you know how much 
father thought of it. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, of course 

Bob. Why, mother, father’s had it ever since he 
was a minister. 

Lucy. It used to hang in his room at the Theo- 
logical Seminary. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, very well — if you feel that 
way about it. 

Lucy. Oh, we do — oh, we do. 

Bob. Yes, of course, we do. Yes, I think we 
ought to keep it. 

Sanborn. (Rises, crosses to couch r.c. to get 
hat) I guess I’ll just take a little walk down Main 
Street. 

Mrs. Stanley. Surely you’ll be back to supper, 
father? 

Sanborn. Oh, yes, I’ll be back — that is, if you’ve 
got room fer me. 

Mrs. Stanley. Of course we have — for as long 
as you can stay 

Sanborn. Well, t’won’t be more’n over night. 
Look here, young folks, as I come down through 
Hampshire I see by the billboards, Barnum & Bail- 


24 


ONLY 38 

ey’s Circus's goin’ to be here to-morrow. Now, what 
ye say we make up a little party, eh ? 

(The twins look at their mother and then at each 
other . Mrs. Stanley sits armchair r.c.J 

Lucy. (After a long pause of disapproval) 
Thank you very much, Grandpa, but I don’t think 
we can. 

Sanborn. Oh, come now — why not ? ( l.c.J 

Bob. (l.) Why, you see, the fact is, Grandpa, 
we’ve only got a few more days of school left and — 
well 

Lucy. (r. of l.c.) Well, we haven’t the time. 

Sanborn. Say, you’re a couple of wonders, you 
be. If anybody ’d a-said circus to me when I was 
a boy, well, he’d-a got me, school or no school. 
Nellie, you an’ the Reverend Eben certainly brung 
’em up good an’ proper. School, eh? Well, I’m a 
son-of-a-gun. ( Chuckling to himself. Sanborn 
exits.) 

Lucy. Circus, indeed! 

Bob. Grandpa’s awfully funny, mother! He 
doesn’t seem to remember father was a minister. 
We’d look nice at a circus now, wouldn’t we ? Why, 
everybody in town would talk about it. 

Mrs. Stanley. I went to a circus once. 

Bob and Lucy. Mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Long before you were bom, my 
dears. 

Lucy. Did father know? 

Mrs. Stanley. No, indeed. It was before I’d 
ever seen him. But I remember it as well as if it 
were last week. My! Those clowns were funny. 
( She smiles reminiscently.) 

Bob. (Disapprovingly, crosses down in front of 
table l.c. to l.J Hum! Well, I guess I better tell 
Jim Green to come over and take these books over 



Only 38 ” See page 22 









ONLY 38 25 

to the new house. (Indicates the heap of books on 
the floor.) 

Mrs. Stanley. (Rises)" Not these, dear. 

Bob. Why not? 

Mrs. Stanley. We haven't room for them. 

Lucy. Mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, I’m going to give them to 
the Public Library. 

Bob. Father’s books? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, dear. 

Lucy. Give away father’s books? 

Mrs. Stanley. (Exasperated at last) My good- 
ness, children ! They are not sacred merely because 
they were your father’s. You might as well say I 
shouldn’t give away his old clothes ! Don’t be silly ! 

Bob. But, mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Now, if you can find one book 
in that heap that either of you think you’ll ever read, 
you mky keep it. Not one of them has ever been 
opened since your father died. Now, I’m going to 
see about supper — we’ll have it a little early to-night, 
and then we’ll take a walk with grandpa down along 
the river. It’s a lovely there these June evenings. 

Lucy. But, mother, it’s Wednesday night. 

Mrs. Stanley. Huh! 

Bob. Prayer-meeting night. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Dashed ) Oh! 

Lucy. Mother, you haven’t been to prayer-meet- 
ing in two weeks. People will begin to think it’s 
very queer. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, I suppose they will. (She 
exits.) 

Lucy. (Crosses and closes door r.J What has 
come over mother? 

Bob. Oh, I don’t know. Something’s wrong. 
Maybe it’s grandpa. He always seems to set her ofif 
some way or other. 


26 ONLY 38 

Lucy. (l.c.J Father didn’t like grandpa very 
much. 

Bob. (r.c.J Did you ever hear him say that? 

Lucy. No — but I could see it. Oh, I suppose it’s 
just our breaking up here — where she’s been so 
happy all those years. 

Bob. Yes, I suppose so. 

Lucy. Mother’s an old dear. 

Bob. Sure, she’s an old peach. 

Lucy. We’ve got to be pretty good to her. 

Bob. Well, I suppose so — after all she’s done for 
us. 

Lucy. She said something this morning about get- 
ting some kind of work herself. 

Bob. She did ! 

Lucy. Yes. 

Bob. Mother work ! She never has yet and I 
guess she’s not going to start now. Not if I know 
it. I’m going to take care of mother. 

Lucy. And I’m going to help. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Appearing at the door) Lucy, 
will you run down to the store and get a pint of 
oysters? Your grandpa’s very fond of oysters. 
^Bob goes up c.) 

Lucy. Of course. (She exits.) 

Mrs. Stanley. And as for you, Bob 

Bob. (Coming down c.r.J Look here, Mother, 
what’s this Lucy tells me about you going to get 
some work? 

Mrs. Stanley. ( c.) Well, Bob, we’ve got to live, 
you know. 

Bob. But I’m going to take care of you, Mother. 
You work. Why, the idea! You’ve never worked 
in all your life. 

Mrs. Stanley. (With a queer sort of smile.) 
No, dear, no. 

Boe. And I guess you’re not going to begin now. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, the truth is, I thought per- 


27 


ONLY 38 

haps I might like to do something besides cook and 
sweep and make beds and wash and iron and dust and 
scrub. 

Bob. Mother ! What would people say ? You, a 
minister’s widow. 

Mrs. Stanley. Bob, sometimes I think if you 
call me a minister’s widow again, I shall scream. 
Bob. Mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, I shall. 

Bob. But that’s what you are, aren’t you? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, but that’s not all I am. 

Bob. Of course not. You’re my mother. 

Mrs. Stanley. Robert Wesley Stanley — will you 
go and mow the lawn or won’t you? 

Bob. (W onderingly ) Why — er — of course. 

( He exits , entirely failing to comprehend her mood. 
As Bob exits r. Sanborn enters L.cJ 

Mrs. Stanley. My goodness, Father! I nearly 
lost my temper then. 

Sanborn. What’s the matter, Nellie? 

Mrs. Stanley. Bob called me a minister’s widow 
again. 

Sanborn. (Puts hat on table l . c .) Well, you be 
one, ain’t ye? 

Mrs. Stanley. Now you’re doing it. You don’t 
know how I hate that phrase. 

Sanborn. All right — all right. Don’t get het up. 
Ain’t nothin’ in gettin’ het up. 

Mrs. Stanley. You didn’t go far, did you? 
Sanborn. No. 

(The sound of the lawn mower is heard.) 

Mrs. Stanley. I’ve got to go and cook supper. 
Sit down and make yourself as comfortable as you 
can on this Methodist sofa. (Starts to go l.) 


28 ONLY 38 

Sanborn. Now wait a minute, Nellie — wait a 

minute. 

Mrs. Stanley, (r.c.) What is it, Father? 

Sanborn. ( c .) I been thinkin’ I used to hear you 
say as how you was goin’ to give that boy’n girl 
of yourn a college education. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes — perhaps, if Mr. Stan- 
ley had lived, we could have managed it somehow, 
but now — well, it was only a dream. 

Sanborn. Feel kind of bad about it, don’t ye? 

Mrs. Stanley. A little. 

Sanborn. ( Sits chair r. of table l.c.) Sinclair 
College is a good college, ain’t it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes — one of the best. 

Sanborn. It’s co-co-co — they take boys an’ girls, 
too, don’t they? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — it’s co-educational. 

Sanborn. Yeah — that’s what I said. 

Mrs. Stanley. What of it? 

Sanborn. (Rises) Do you hear any sleigh-bells? 
Did I come down the chimbley when I come in? 

Mrs. Stanley. What are you talking about ? 

Sanborn. I’m talkin’ about Santa Claus. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, you talk as if you’d found 
some cider somewhere. 

Sanborn. (Taking out wallet) Set that down 
there, Nellie. I’m goin’ to give you that little sur- 
prise. (Sits r. of table l.c.J 

Mrs. Stanley, (l.c.) What is it, Father? 

Sanborn. Nellie, d’ye remember that grove o’ 
big white pines up on Monument Mountain back of 
the old house? 

Mrs. Stanley. Of course I do, I got lost there 
once. 

Sanborn. Well, I’ve sold ’em. 

Mrs. Stanley. Sold them? 

Sanborn. Just take a squint at this. (He pro - 


ONLY 38 29 

duces a wallet and from it a check which he hands 
her.) 

Mrs. Stanley. (Reading) “Pay to the order of 
Nathaniel T. Sanborn, Twenty Thousand dollars.” 
Father ! 

Sanborn. Pretty good, ain't it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Twenty Thousand. Dollars ! Oh, 
I’m so glad. 

Sanborn. Yeah! So be I. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father, this will make you com- 
fortable for life ! Why, you need never worry again 
as long as you live. 

Sanborn. Sinclair College is a good college, ain’t 
it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Father, what do you mean? 

Sanborn. It’s co — they take boys and girls, too, 
don’t they? 

Mrs. Stanley. Father, you don’t mean — you 
can’t mean 

Sanborn. Guess I do. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh ! Father ! ( She sinks to the 
sofa and begins to cry.) 

Sanborn. (Rises) There — there! Now, Nellie 
— don’t take on so. You don’t have to send ’em if 
ye don’t want to. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, I do — I do. 

Sanborn. Then what in Sam Hill Say, 

you’re goin’ along, too — ye know. 

Mrs. Stanley. Me — go to college? 

Sanborn. Well, mebbe not to college, but as fur 
as college, anyhow. I ain’t figurin’ on sendin’ 
them twins away from ye, exactly. Not if I 
know it. 

Mrs. Stanley. What do you mean? 

Sanborn. I guess they’s houses to rent up there, 
ain’t they? 

Mrs. Stanley. But, Father, it’ll cost such a lot. 

Sanborn. Well, I got it, I guess — an’ more too. 


30 


ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. (Begins to cry ) Oh, Father! I 
just can’t stand it — you don’t know what it means 
to me. 

Sanborn. P’r’aps I do. 

Mrs. Sanborn. It’s the dearest wish of my life — 
and now — to think it’s come true. Oh ! 

(Enter Lucy.J 

Lucy. Here are the oysters, Mother. 

( Enter Bob.J 

Bob. Lawn’s all mowed, Mother — and I’m hun- 
gry- 

Lucy. (Seeing her mother dissolved in tears) 
Mother ! 

Bob. Mother ! 

Sanborn. Oh, she’s all right. 

Bob. Mother, what is the matter with you? 

Sanborn. Now, don’t git excited. She’s all 
right, she’s just had a little good news, an’ she ain’t 
used to it. 


CURTAIN 


ACT II 


Scene: The scene is the living-room in the little 
cottage in the college town whither Mrs. Stan- 
ley and the twins have moved in the interval 
between Acts I and II. 

It is furnished with the furniture of Act I 
and its general atmosphere is that of the modi- 
fied dismal. The paper on the wall is one of 
the few cheerful notes. That of course was 
there when they rented the house. On the wall 
still hangs Dr. Spalding’s picture. The pro- 
test of the twins brought it with the family. 
Also <{ Evening Prayer ” stands on a table in one 
corner. On another table is the family album 
and a big Bible. Bookcase at c. rear. En- 
trance from hall at rear l.c. Window at l. 
looking to street. Door at R.3.E into dining- 
room, kitchen, etc. The same horse-hair sofa r. 
Table c. Chairs l. Fireplace and mantel R.2.E. 
At Rise : The twins come in with their arms full 
of text-books — just returned from afternoon 
lectures. 

Lucy. (As she comes in, calls) Mother — oh, 
Mother! Wonder where she is. (She goes to door 
r. in search of mother .) 

Bob. ( Goes into hall and calls upstairs) Mother! 

Lucy. (Heard calling off r.) Mother! Mother! 
(No answer — Lucy comes back to room.) Where 
on earth do you suppose she is. She’s always at 
home at this hour. 

Bob. Search me. But I saw her this afternoon. 
3i 


32 ONLY 38 

Lucy. Saw her? Where? 

Bob. Going into the library. 

Lucy. Are you sure? 

Bob. Yes, pretty sure. Why not? 

Lucy. Oh, nothing. 

Bob. What are you driving at? 

Lucy. Bob, mother’s up to something. 

Bob. Up to something. 

Lucy. Yes — she’s doing something queer. 

Bob. Say — what d’you mean? 

Lucy. Well, yesterday morning I came home. 
Mother wasn’t here and pretty soon she came in 
and — she kind of acted flustered at seeing me. 
Course I asked her where she’d been and she — well, 
she — she put me off. 

Bob. Wouldn’t tell? 

Lucy. No — just said it didn’t— really matter. 

Bob. Well, it didn’t, did it? 

Lucy. No-o. I only asked because — well — you 
know the way you do — but I thought it was kind 
of queer and she — well — she looked kind of guilty. 

Bob. Guilty! Look here. Sis, you can’t talk 
about mother like that. 

Lucy. Oh, you silly. I don’t mean she looked 
like a criminal — but — well, she acted as if she’d been 
doing something queer. 

Bob. Well, if you’re not just like a woman. The 
minute you don’t tell a woman everything she wants 
to know, she thinks you’re queer. Oh ! I know ’em ! 
I know ’em ! Who was that girl I saw you with 
coming out of Callaway this morning? fBoB goes 
L. and lies down on sofa with a text-hook.) 

Lucy. Oh — I guess you mean Mary Hadley — 
she’s from Brockton. Isn’t she pretty? 

Bob. (With assumed indifference) Oh, I don’t 
know. 

Lucy. Of course you know she’s pretty. Don’t 
be silly. 


GROUND GLASS WINDOW 



G 


ACTS XL t'TIE 



ONLY 38 33 

Bob. Well, I wasn’t very close. She looked all 
right. 

Lucy. She’s awfully nice, too. I’m going to 
bring her home some time, if she’ll come. You’ll 
like her, Bob. 

Bob. Oh, I don’t know, I haven’t got much time 
for the women. I’m too busy. 

Lucy. Humph ! I guess you’ll find more time for 
her than she’ll find for you. 

Bob. Is that so! By the way, there was a man 
asking about you to-day. 

Lucy. A man! 

Bob. Yes, a feller in my class. Name’s Johnson, 
Syd Johnson. 

Lucy. What did he want to know about me? 

Bob. Well, of course, he didn’t know it was you. 
He — he just asked me who that girl was he’d seen 
me with. 

Lucy. What did you say? 

Bob. Said it was my sister, o’ course. 

Lucy. What did he say? 

Bob. He just said “Oh !” 

Lucy. Oh ! ( Dropping her eyes.) 

Bob. (Rises from sofa , crosses to l. of table R.c.J 
He’s from Waterbury. He asked me to come over 
to his dorm and swap a yarn with him some time. 

Lucy. Well, I think you’d better bring him here 
first. 

Bob. Oh-ho ! ( Grinning.) 

Lucy. Now don’t be silly! I mean mother’d 
probably like to see him, before you go making 
friends with him. 

Bob. There you go! Jumping at conclusions. 
Just like a woman! I just barely met the man and 
to hear you anybody’d think we were Damon and 
Pythias. 

Lucy. I never said anything of the kind. I 


34 ONLY 38 

just don't think you're quite old enough to pick up 
any old 

Bob. Humph ! I'm as old as you, little Miss Wise. 

Lucy. No, you're not. 

Bob. I am. 

Lucy. You’re not. 

Bob. (With fine sarcasm) Well, of course, I 
may be very stupid, but I have been brought up to 
believe that there isn't much difference in the ages 
of twins. 

Lucy. ( Wisely ) Girls are much older than boys 
of the same age. 

Bob. Is that so ? 

Lucy. Yes, that's so. 

Bob. Where did you get that bright idea? 

Lucy. I read it in a book. 

Bob. What book? 

Lucy. Never you mind. 

Bob. Huh! Some book! I s'pose you think it’s 
an epigram. 

Lucy. No — it's just the truth. 

Bob. Well, you may be a lot smarter than I am — 
but somehow it don’t seem to come out very well. 

Lucy. Bob, I only 

Bob. Now don’t you worry your gigantic in- 
tellect about me. I'll try and worry along for a 
while longer with nothing but the college faculty to 
instruct me. 

(Enter Mrs. Stanley. Bob rises. She is still 
dressed in black , but she wears a hat that is 
slightly youthful and her manner is vaguely sug- 
gestive of reviving happiness.) 

Mrs. Stanley. ("Bob rises) Well, well, chil- 
dren! So you're home, eh? 

Lucy. Of course, we’re home — and oh, mother, 


ONLY 38 35 

dear, I do wish you wouldn’t call us children. We’re 
not children any more. 

Mrs. Stanley. Dear me ! I suppose that’s so. 

Bob. Of course, it’s so. 

Mrs. Stanley. I suppose I seem as old to you 
as you seem young to me. (She sits down.) All 
right, my dears. You won’t mind my calling you 
that? 

Lucy and Bob. Oh, no — no, indeed. 

Mrs. Stanley. Because you are dear to me — and 
you’re mine — aren’t you? 

Lucy. Of course. 

Mrs. Stanley. All right then, my dears. I’ll 
try to remember. I’ll keep saying to myself — 
they’re not children — they’re not children — they’re 
not children any more. And you — you must keep 
saying to yourselves — Mother’s not old — Mother’s 
not old — at least she’s not so very old. Will you? 

Lucy. Mother! You’re so funny. 

Mrs. Stanley. Am I? 

Lucy. Yes — and you’re — well, you’re different 

somehow. 

Mrs. Stanley. Am I? 

Lucy. Yes. 

Mrs. Stanley. Bob, there’s a package in the hall. 
Bring it in, dear. 

Bob. (Goes to hall l. and brings in picture, 
wrapped up) Funny shape. 

(After a pause, Mrs. Stanley makes a decision. 

* Bob unties package and discloses a Japanese 
print — all framed and ready for hanging . It 
is a piece of vivid, beautiful color.) 

Lucy. Mother ! What are you going to do with 
that? 

Mrs. Stanley. Isn’t it beautiful ? 

Lucy. Why — yes — I suppose so. 


36 ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. Bob, just take that down, will 
you? (She indicates Dr. Spalding's picture.) 

Bob. What? Dr. Spalding? 

Mrs. Stanley. I just want to try an experiment. 
(Doubtfully Bob climbs a chair and takes down 
the old man's picture.) Now, just hang that up 
there. (She hands him the Japanese print. Hesi- 
tatingly he hangs it up, then gets down and all three 
look at it.) Now, my dears, what do you think of it? 

Lucy. (Reluctant admission) Well, it’s pretty, 
but — it — it hardly has the atmosphere of our family. 

Mrs. Stanley. Lucy — Lucy — and I thought you 
were only eighteen. 

Bob. It’s sort of cheerful, isn’t it? 

Mrs. Stanley. I think so. 

Bob. But I don’t think it matches our furniture 
very well. 

Lucy. You’re not going to leave it there, are 
you? 

Mrs. Stanley. Well. I thought — perhaps — for a 
day or two 

Lucy. But what about Dr. Spalding? 

Mrs. Stanley. You may have him to hang in 
your bedroom. 

Lucy. Mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley, Oh, just for the present, I mean. 
It’s only an experiment. Then, of course, if you 
both want him back here, you shall Lave him. 

Lucy. But, Mother, don’t you want him back 
yourself ? 

Mrs. Stanley. ( Crosses to r. Lucy to l.c. Bob 
takes paper and throws it out rJ We’ll see — 
we’ll see. Why! It’s nearly time to think about 
supper isn’t it ? How the time does fly when you’re 
busy and happy? 

Bob. (Starts to get) I saw you this afternoon, 
Mother. 

Mrs. Stanley. Did you — where? 


37 


ONLY 38 

Bob. Going into the Library. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, I may as well tell you. 
You’ll probably see your mother entering the Li- 
brary a good many times, if you look sharp. 

Lucy. What do you mean? 

Mrs. Stanley. (Teasing them) Well, I can read, 
you know. 

Bob. Mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes — words of not more than 
two syllables. 

“Sister, sister, come and see, 

Tis hot a bird, ’tis not a bee, 

Ah, it flutters, there it goes, 

Now it nestles on a rose.” 

Lucy. Mother don’t be so foolish. 

Mrs. Stanley. Excuse me, my dear. I forgot. 
A minister’s widow must never be frivolous. Some- 
one might think it queer. 

Bob. Mother, you’re up to something. 

Mrs. Stanley. Am I? 

Lucy. You’ve got something up your sleeve. 

Mrs. Stanley. Up my sleeve! Lucy, Lucy! 
( Shakes her head.) 

Lucy. What is it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Such language from a minister’s 
daughter. 

Lucy. You’re dodging the point. 

Mrs. Stanley. . Am I ? 

Bob. Yes, what are you up to? 

Mrs. Stanley. ( Hesitates , then takes the plunge) 
Well, I’ve got a job. 

*Bob. What ! 

Lucy. Mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley. In the Library 

Bob and Lucy. Mother ! What do you mean ? etc. 

Mrs. Stanley. A job in the Library — cata- 
loguing books. 

Bob. A job? 


38 


ONLY 38 

Bob and Lucy. Well, of all the — etc., etc. 

Mrs. Stanley. I went and saw the dean, told 
him I was a poor old broken-down minister’s widow 
with two infant children crying for bread and no 
food in the house, the rent coming due and the hard- 
hearted landlord about to throw us into the street. 
Whereupon the sweet old thing wept on my shoul- 
der and gave me a job. 

Bob. Mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Every morning from nine till 
twelve. 

Lucy. Mother ! How can you ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, I may have added a detail 
here and there, but anyhow, he did give me a job. 
And I’m earning money — for the first time in my 
life I’m going to have some money that’s absolutely 
all my own — money that nobody gave me — money 
that I didn’t have to ask for — money I can spend as 
I like and give no accounting. Do you know what 
I’m going to do with the first dollar I get? 

Lucy. Perhaps you’ll give it to the Foreign 
Mission Society. 

Mrs. Stanley. I’m going to take it down to 
the river and — throw it in. 

Bob. If you do, I’ll dive after it 

Mrs. Stanley. And what’s more, the dean said 
that he would see that I got some new books to 
index — books published by members of the faculty. 
He says indexing is very important, and it’s hard to 
get people who will do it intelligently. He seemed 
to think I might. I really don’t know why. No- 
body ever asked me to do anything intelligent be- 
fore. 

Bob. (Rises) Mother, I don’t like it. What’ll the 
other men think — my mother working in the Li- 
brary ! And I ought to be working so you wouldn’t 
have to. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Rises) All right, my son, only 


39 


ONLY 38 

remember this- — the better education you get right 
now, the more you can do for mother when she’s 
really as old as you think she is now. 

Lucy. (Rises) But, Mother, dear, you’ll be all 
worn out, and besides it looks so funny. 

Mrs. Stanley. Lucy ! I will not have a snob for 
my daughter. 

Lucy. I’m not a snob ! But I can’t forget father’s 
position. A minister, and now 

Mrs. Stanley. My dear, your father’s life is 
over. While he lived, his word, heaven knows, was 
law, and that was right. But now we’ve got our 
lives to live and he can’t help us — or hinder us. 
You speak of his position. Think of mine — a 
widow — with two children to educate — and precious 
little money, too — just think of that, children. 

Bob. You promised you wouldn’t call us children. 

Mrs. Stanley. I’m sorry — it’s so hard to re- 
member — and after all, you are my children 

Lucy. Yes, we are your children, but not chil- 
dren. Oh, don’t you see? 

Mrs. Stanley. Then what are you, in pity’s 
name? 

Lucy. Why — er — er — We’re — er 

Bob. Offspring. 

Mrs. Stanley. Offspring! Very well, here- 
after I shall call you that ! I hope that’ll be satis- 
factory, offspring. 

Lucy. Mother, don’t be so silly. 

( The bell rings) 

Mrs. Stanley. Will one of you offspring run 
and see who that is? (TIob exits.) 

Lucy. Mother, you’re not going to call us that? 

Mrs. Stanley. What ? 

Lucy. Offspring. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, I must call you something. 


40 


ONLY 38 

I can’t call you “my dears” all the time. It’s a 
trifle sugary — and besides, there are times when I 
don’t feel like it. Offspring indeed! “The Society 
for the Prevention of Cruelty to Offspring.” 

(Bob enters. He carries a big box, well wrapped 
up and elaborately addressed.) 

Bob. Expressman, Mother. It’s for you. 

Mrs. Stanley. Me! 

Lucy. It says Lucille. Mother, who’s Lucille. 
Mrs. Stanley. Well, dear, the only Lucille I 
know is a lady in a poem by a gentleman named 
Meredith. 

(They all busily and excitedly unpack it.) 

Bob. Well, I guess it can’t be her. Let’s open it. 
I’ll bet it’s some kind of a joke. 

Mrs. Stanley. I suppose so. 

Lucy. (Undoing another layer of wrapping pa- 
per) Well, if it’s a joke, it’s pretty carefully con- 
cealed. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, dear, it is rather subtle so 
far. 

(Finally they get it unwrapped. It turns out to be a 
lovely gown — not too bright — but distinctly a 
happy gown — and of course a French model. 
Mrs. Stanley holds it up, her eyes shining 
amid a chorus of wondering delight from the 
twins.) 

Lucy. Oh, Mother, there’s a note with it. (She 
produces a note from the box and gives it to mother.) 
Mrs. Stanley. A note? 

Bob. Oh — read it — who’s it from? 

Lucy. Yes — who can it be? 


ONLY 38 41 

Mrs. Stanley. (Looking at the address) Oh! 
Oh ! Well, bless her heart. 

Lucy. Who, Mother, who? 

Bob. Yes — who’s heart? 

Mrs. Stanley. It’s from Alice Denny. 

Lucy. Oh, the girl you used to know. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes. 

Bob. The one that married the New York lawyer. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes. (She opens the note.) 

Bob. She’s rich, isn’t she? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, dear. 

Lucy. Oh — do read it, Mother. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Reading the note) “Dearest 
Nellie: This is a liberty, I know. But perhaps you 
won’t mind. I’m sure you wouldn’t if you knew 
how happy it makes me to do it. I’ve been thinking 
a lot about you and I just had to send you something 
to stand for everything of sunshine and happiness 
that I wish for you — for all the bright things of life 
that you ought to have had long ago — and that have 
passed you by. I hope they will pass you by no 
longer. Do write and tell me if it fits. I’m sure 
it will, with a little trouble. Give my love to your 
delightful — offspring — and ” 

Lucy. Mother, she didn't say that. ( Goes to box 
to take out gown.) 

Mrs. Stanley. (Not heeding her) “Offspring, 
and believe me, Your loving Alice.” (She is much 
affected by the whole incident.) 

Lucy. (Holding the gown up) Oh, Mother, it’s 
new — it’s not second-hand. It’s brand new. 

Bob. ’Course it’s new. (Puts hat on his head. 
Lucy takes out silk stockings.) 

Lucy. Mother, they’re silk! See! 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, dear, aren’t they lovely? 

Bob. Some socks ! Look at the clocks on them, 
too. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, my son, that’s so; I won’t 


42 


ONLY 38 

get home late when I’m out walking. (Again she 
looks at the dress and holds it up in front.) Lucy, 
look at the petticoat. Oh, isn’t it beautiful! 

Bob. Looks good to me. 

Lucy. Ye-e-es. But is it — er — quite — suitable? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh ! For a minister’s widow, 
you mean? 

Lucy. Well — I — I — only meant 

Mrs. Stanley. You dear! You’re so afraid 
someone is going to say something nasty about your 
poor mother. You just couldn’t stand it, could you? 

Lucy. No, Mother, I couldn’t. 

Mrs. Stanley. You nice offspring! Well, well, 
dear, let’s hope that no one will. Now, just help 
me put these things away. (They all get busy on the 
job.) 

Bob. (As they work) Man in my class I want to 
bring home some time, Mother. Name’s Johnson, 
Syd Johnson. May I? 

Mrs. Stanley. Why, of course. Bring him in to 
tea — some afternoon. 

Bob. All right, I will. He’s O. K., I think. 
Nothing fresh about him. He’s all to the merry. 

Mrs. Stanley. All to the merry, eh? Well, 
fetch him along, I want to know all your friends, if 
you’ll let me. 

Lucy. Oh, Mother, I’ve got the dandiest pro- 
fessor in English Lit. 

Mrs. Stanley. English what? 

Lucy. English Lit — English Literature, you 
know. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes. 

Lucy. Oh, he makes everything so interesting — 
and he reads poetry so beautifully. He’s quite 
young, too — well, I mean he’s not old a bit. Oh, 
he’s just dandy. 

Mrs. Stanley. What’s his name, dear? I don’t 
seem to remember. 


43 


ONLY 38 

Lucy. Giddings — Professor Giddings. 

Bob. Commonly known as Giddy. 

Lucy. Oh, I’m just crazy about him. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, so I gathered. 

Lucy. Well, he’s — he’s just dandy. He’s got the 
loveliest voice. 

Bob. (Jeering at her) All us girls are just dippy 
about Giddy. 

Lucy. Oh, you hush up ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Here, Bob (Hands him an 

armful of wrapping paper.) Take this stuff away, 
and, by the way, what do you think we’d better do 
with “The Family Group”? (She indicates the 
Rogers Group on the little table.) 

Bob. Do with it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes. 

Lucy. Why do anything with it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Why not? You can’t tell me 
you like it. 

Bob. It isn’t very gay, is it ? 

Lucy. But it was father's. 

Mrs. Stanley. He didn’t choose it. It was 
wished on him. 

Lucy. Wished on him ! Mother ! 

WARNING . 

Bob. Oh, Luce! She means the church gave it 
to him, you bonehead. 

Lucy. Oh, I know what she means — it was the 
way she said it. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, you never heard your fa- 
ther say he liked it, did you? 

Lucy. Yes, I did. When they gave it to him at 
the Donation Party he made a speech thanking them 
for “their beautiful present.” 

Mrs. Stanley. He had to say something nice. 
You couldn’t expect him to say : “My dear brothers 
and sisters, I thank you heartily for your hideous 
present.” The poor man had to keep it about be- 


44 ONLY 38 

cause they gave it to him. But that is no reason 
why we should. 

Lucy. Well, I don’t know. 

Mrs. Stanley. (At last she is exasperated ) 
That’s enough, my dear ! Bob, take it away. Hide 
it in the attic. Bury it in the cellar ! Throw it in 
the street ! Give it to the Heathen ! Anything ! 
Only don’t ever let me see that dreadful thing 
again. 

WARNING for curtain. 

Lucy. Mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh! (Checks herself.) That 
wasn’t nice of mother, was it? But I mean it. You 
don’t know — you can’t imagine — how sick I am of 
living in the shadow of “what people will say.” 

Lucy, But, Mother, dear 

Mrs. Stanley. All my life I’ve done it and all 
my life I’ve hated it and now I’m through with it. 

Bob and Lucy. Mother! 

Mrs. Stanley. Don’t be alarmed, my dears. 
Mother’s not going to dye her hair, or rouge her 
cheeks, or elope with a married man. At least, she 
doesn’t think so. But for the first time in her life 
she’s going to do as she pleases. She doesn’t think 
she’s going to do anything terrible — but she’s going 
to do what she likes. I shouldn’t wonder — some- 
time — if she smoked a cigarette. 

Lucy. Mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh — just one — just a little one — 
down cellar, in the dark. I don’t say she will — but 
she will if she wants to — and you can just put that 
in your two little pipes and smoke it, my offspring. 

(She exits.) 

CURTAIN 


SCENE II 


The curtain remains lowered a minute or so to in- 
dicate the lapse of several days. When it rises , 
the time of day is late afternoon. Mrs. Stan- 
ley is discovered. There are chintz curtains 
on the window. The chairs are covered with 
chintz slip-covers. Mrs. Stanley is sewing 
on a heap of chintz in her lap. After a mo- 
ment or two she finishes her sewing , rises and 
holds up the heap of chintz. It is a slip-cover 
for the horse-hair armchair. She takes it over 
to that fearsome article of furniture and slips 
it on. Then some vases with flowers that lie 
on the table she puts on the mantelpiece, etc. 
This done, she stands back and surveys the ef- 
fect, smiling. The little room had really become 
quite gay. Mrs. Stanley herself still wears 
her black dress of the preceding scene. As she 
stands surveying the room, the front door is 
heard to slam, and Bob is heard whistling in the 
hall. After a moment he enters, hat in hand, 
books under arm. 

Bob. Hello, Mother. 

Mrs. Stanley. Hello, dear. 

Bob. Everything all right? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes. 

Bob. That’s good ! Gee, I’m tired. Been on the 
go all day. Grandpa showed up yet? 

45 


4 6 ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. Not yet. His train’s probably 
late. 

Bob. Yes — it generally is. How long’s he going 
to stay? 

Mrs. Stanley. Just over night. He’s on his way 
to New York. 

Bob. New York ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — he’s never been there and 
he thinks it’s time he went. Bob — how do you like 
it? 

Bob. Eh? 

Mrs. Stanley. Look around ! Look around you. 

Bob. (Surveying the room) Phew! Wow! 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, do you like it? 

Bob. Gee! It’s — it’s kind of pretty, ain’t it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, it’s different. 

Bob. Did you do it all yourself? 

Mrs. Stanley. All myself. 

Bob. Gee! Aren’t you the smart one! Does 
Lucy know? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, no, indeed. I did it as a — 
sort of surprise. 

Bob. She’ll be surprised all right. Where’d you 
get the posies? 

Mrs. Stanley. I stole them. 

Bob. Mother! Who from? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, from God. 

Bob. Mother, you do say the funniest things. But 
it is pretty. 

Mrs. Stanley. You like it? 

Bob. Yes — and you, too. (He gives her a hug.) 
I’m kind of glad I’ve got you for a mother. 

Mrs. Stanley. Really, this is gross flattery, my 
son. 

Bob. No — honest, I am. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — but — but — what do you 
suppose Lucy will say? 

Bob. Mother, I believe you’re scared of her. 


47 


ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, she’s rather severe. 

Bob. Well, don’t be frightened. Don’t you 
care. I won’t let her hurt you. 

Mrs. Stanley. Bob, there’s something in the 
bookcase I want you to see. 

Bob. Will it bite? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, no — it’s not cross at all. It’s 
very happy. That’s why I got it. 

Bob. (Taking model from bookcase, discloses a 
plaster cast of Donatello's <c Laughing Boy") Well, 
of all the Where on earth did you get it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Over at Tony’s. 

Bob. But, Mother — it must have cost a lot. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh — it’s just a reproduction, and 
a little bit damaged. Very cheap, you know. 

Bob. What’ll I do with it? 

Mrs. Stanley. On that table, I think. (Bob 
puts it on the table in corner r.) It — it isn’t much 
like “The Family Group,” is it? 

Bob. Huh! Not much — no! 

Mrs. Stanley. Do you like it? 

Bob. Sure, if you do. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Giving him a hug) Ah, you 
darling. Boys are so satisfactory, aren’t they ? After 
this all the rest of my children shall be boys. 

Bob. I prefer girls myself. 

Lucy. ( Enters ) Mother Stanley! (Amazed by 
the change in the room.) 

Mrs. Stanley. It’s quite a change, isn’t it? 

Bob. Great stuff. Kind of cheers you up, don’t 
it, Luce ? 

Lucy. Mother, you did all this yourself, and you 
never told me. It must have been a lot of work. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, it was fun. (A pause.) I 
do hope you like it, dear. 

Lucy. (With her hand on one of the slip-covers) 
Well, I suppose it will save the furniture a good 
deal. 


48 


ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, dear, my idea exactly. How 
did you guess it? (Turns to Bob.) Is your friend 
coming for tea this afternoon, Bobby? 

Bob. Gee! Yes! I forgot — old Syd’ll be in any 
minute now. 

Mrs. Stanley. Very well; Lucy, just bring in 
the tea things. 

Lucy. Oh, what do you think? Professor Gid- 
dings is coming here this afternoon. 

Bob. Oh! Giddy! Giddy! Giddy! 

Mrs. Stanley. Bobby, you mustn’t be disre- 
spectful. 

Lucy. I went up after the lecture to ask him about 
a magazine poem he quoted and what d’ye think he 
said? You could have knocked me over with a 
feather. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, what did he say? 

Lucy. He said “I’ll bring the magazine to your 
house at tea-time to-day.” Isn’t it just thrilling! 

Mrs. Stanley. (A little taken aback , for no ap- 
parent reason) Why — er — yes, dear, I suppose so. 

Lucy. Mother, don’t you want him to come? 

Mrs. Stanley. Why — yes — of course — only 

Lucy. Oh, you’ll like him. 

Bob. Oh, all us girls are just dippy about Giddy. 

Lucy. Oh, you hush up. 

Bob. Giddy-ap — Giddy-ap — Giddy-ap. 

Lucy. Bob Stanley, I do think you might act like 
a man and not like a kid. 

Mrs. Stanley. Now, offspring, offspring. Lucy * 
is right, Bobby. You mustn’t act like that. Pro- 
fessor Giddings is a man for whom I have grown 
to have the highest respect. 

Lucy and Bob. Mother! 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, what’s the matter? 

Lucy. Do you know him ? 

Mrs. Stanley. Of course I know him. I’ve met 
him often. 


49 


ONLY 38 

Lucy. Well, why didn't you say so? 

Mrs. Stanley. I am saying so. 

Lucy. Yes, but just now when I said he was com- 
ing here, you never said a word about having 

Mrs. Stanley. Look here, I brought you two 
offspring here for an education, didn’t I? 

Lucy. I suppose so. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well I’m educating you, that’s 
all. 

Lucy. Educating us ? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes. There’s a lot more education 
to be had than you’ll ever find in books — and I’m 
helping to give it to you. I’m trying to open your 
eyes to people and customs and surroundings that 
you’ve never known before — so that when you get 
to be my age you’ll be a finer — stronger — nicer 
woman than your mother ever was or ever can be, 
and so — Amen. 

Lucy. Mother, I’ve never seen you like this be- 
fore. 

Mrs. Stanley. Because I’ve never been like this 
before. 

Bob. Well, what’s the idea? 

Mrs. Stanley. Did you ever read Aesop’s 
Fables ? 

Bob. Sure. ( Sits on arm of armchair .) 

Mrs. Stanley. Remember the one about ducks 
and the two chickens? 

Bob. Don’t believe I do. 

Mrs. Stanley. Do you, Lucy? ("Lucy shakes 
her head.) Then I’ll tell it to you. Once upon a 
time there was a duck that had two chickens. 

Lucy. Ducks don’t have chickens. 

Mrs. Stanley. This one did, and one day the 
duck left her two chickens for the first time and 
went swimming in the mill pond. And the two 
chickens stood on the bank and peeped in fright. 
They peeped so loudly that all the neighbors came 


50 


ONLY 38 

running to see what was the trouble. And the two 
chicks cried out to the neighbors : “Oh ! Oh ! Please 
make mother come back before she gets drowned.” 
But the neighbors laughed and said, “Why, you sil- 
lies, don’t you know she’s a duck?” And do you 
know that up to that very moment those two 
chickens had always believed that their mother was 
a hen. Yes — it’s a fact. (Exits upstairs.) 

Lucy. Hen, huh! 

Bob. (Rises) Well, mother is a duck, isn’t she? 

Lucy. Well, I don’t care for the simile. 

Bob. It isn’t a simile, it’s a metaphor, you dumb- 
bell. 

Lucy. (Rises, goes l ) Well, whatever it is, I 
don’t care for it. 

Bob. Well, you certainly .started something that 
time, didn’t you? 

Lucy. What has come over mother? 

Bob. Search me. 

Lucy. Well, there’s something the matter with 
her. 

Bob. Anyhow, she’s made this room a lot pret- 
tier, hasn’t she? 

Lucy. Ye — e — s, I suppose so. But I don’t think 
it looks much like us. 

Bob. Like us! 

Lucy. I was just thinking what father would say. 

Bob. Oh, Luce! 

Lucy. Well 

Bob. I guess he’d like it after -he got used to it. 

Lucy. Well, perhaps 

Bob. Then what are you kicking about? 

Lucy. I’m not kicking. 

Bob. Yes, you are, too. You’re kicking like a 
steer. Every time mother does something new 
around the house you look like there was a funeral 
going on. 

Lucy. It isn’t that— it’s just that mother’s so 


ONLY 38 51 

kind of queer — and she — she looks so — so kind of 
young. 

Bob. Well, what of it ? I ’spose you’d rather have 
her be an old hag with all her teeth gone and a hump 
on her back — like Mother Goose or something. I 
think mother’s a peach. 

Lucy. Of course she is. What could we do with- 
out her? You don’t understand me at all. I 

Bob. No — I sure don’t. Any fellow that says he 
understands a woman is either a liar or a fool. 

Lucy. I suppose you got that out of a book. 

Bob. What if I did? 

Lucy. Some book! 

Door bell rings. 

Bob. You go to the kitchen and get the tea things 
as mother said. I’ll answer the bell. ('Lucy exits 
r. Bob exits l. and re-enters with Mary Hadley J 
Do come in, please. Lucy’s sure to be in any minute. 

Mary. Do you think I ought to? 

Bob. I don’t see why not. 

Mary. Oh, but you don’t know who I am, do 
you? 

Bob. Oh, yes I do. 

Mary. Do you ? 

Bob. Sure, you’re Mary Hadley. 

Mary. How did you know? 

Bob. Asked my sister. 

Mary. Oh ! 

Bob. We don’t have to stand up. We can sit 
down if we want to. (They sit. Mary on couch. 
Bob on chair l.c.J Where you from? 

Mary. Brockton. 

Bob. Oh — that’s where the shoes come from. 

Mary. Yes, my father makes ’em. 

Bob. Is that so? Did he make those you’ve got 
on? 

Mary. Oh, no. I got these at Langham’s. 


52 


ONLY 38 

Bob. They’re awfully pretty. Brockton’s where 
they make the Douglas shoe, isn’t it? 

Mary. Yes. 

Bob. (Trying to be entertaining ) I used to know 
some poetry about that. 

Mary. Did you ? 

Bob. Yes — it began, “Douglas — Douglas, tender 
and true, send me a pair of your three dollar shoe.” 

Mary. I bet you wish you could get ’em for three 
dollars now. 

Bob. Yes. (Long pause.) 

Mary. Isn’t it just terrible the way everything’s 
going up? 

Bob. Fierce. ’Specially aeroplanes — ha-ha. 

(An awkward pause.) 

Mary. I guess I’d better be going. (Rises.) 

Bob. Oh, no, don’t go. 

Mary. Well, I guess I’d better. 

Bob. It’s all right, Lucy will be here in a minute, 
sit down, please! (They sit again.) 

Mary. I think you sister’s awfully nice. 

Bob. (Indifferently) Oh, she’s all right. 

Mary. I think she’s going to be the most popular 
girl in our class. 

Bob. ( Surprised ) Honest ? 

Mary. Well, if that isn’t just like a man. 

Bob. What ? 

Mary. I never knew a man who appreciated his 
own sister. They’re crazy about other men’s sisters, 
but their own — oh, no. 

Bob. Oh, I guess I appreciate her enough. 

Mary. Humph ! You do not. Why, half the men 
in our class are crazy about her already. 

Bob. ( Astonished ) No ! 

Mary. Of course they are. 

Bob. Honest? 


ONLY 38 53 

Mary. Of course! Where are your eyes? And 
there’s that Johnson man- -oh ! 

Bob. You mean Syd Johnson? 

Mary. Hm — hm. 

Bob. Well, what about old Syd? 

Mary. Why, he’s awfully gone on her. Why 
only this morning in algebra he never once took his 
eyes off her. 

Bob. Gosh ! 

Mary. Of course, she never paid any attention 
to him. 

Bob. I’ll bet she knew it all the same. Oh, they 
always know. 

Mary. Do they? 

Bob. Yes. I saw a fellow looking at you. I 
bet you knew. 

Mary. Who ? 

Bob. Me. 

(Enter Lucy.J 


Bob, why didn’t you tell 
Just talking about you. 


Lucy. Mary Hadley! 
me ? Hello, Mary. 

Mary. Hello, Lucy. 

Lucy. Me ? 

Mary. Yes, didn’t you ears burn ? 

Lucy. No. 

Mary. They should have. 

Bob. I should say so. Oh, you Johnson! 

Mary. Now, you hush up or I’ll never tell you 
anything again. 

Bob. Mum’s the word. 

Lucy. What do you mean? 

Mary. Oh, just a lot of nonsense. But I’ve got 
to go. Just came in to ask you to a fudge party 
in my room to-night. Will you come? Eight 
o’clock. 

Bob. Sure I will. 


54 ONLY 38 

Mary. Oh — not you ! Do you want to get us all 
fired? 

Lucy. Of course I’ll come. 

Mary. Fine ! ( Going to Bob.J Remember, mum’s 
the word. 

Bob. I won’t say anything. (They giggle .) 
Lucy. Won’t you stay to tea, Mary ? 

Bob. Oh, yes, please stay. 

Mary. I wish I could, but I’ve got an engage- 
ment. 

Bob. Who with? 

Lucy. Why, Bob! 

Mary. Well, I’ve got to be going. Good-bye. 
Bob. (As Lucy starts to go out with MaryJ 
Look here, now, I’ll show this lady out. 

(Bob and Mary exit. Enter Mrs. Stanley. She 
wears a pretty bright dress. It is the first time 
we have seen her in anything but black. Also 
she has done something interesting to her pretty 
yellow hair.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, offspring, where are the 
tea things? 

Lucy. (Staring at the transformation) Mother! 
(Bob enters.) 


Bob. Mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Never mind me now. The tea 
things, hurry up now. (The twins run off r. Mother 
takes a half-smiling glance at herself in the mirror, 
pats her hair, etc. The twins return with the tea 
things and place them on table. Mother sits at table 
and inspects the tea things.) There — now. I guess 
we’re ready. (Door bell.) Answer the door, Bob. 
(Bob exits into the hall.) Like my new dress, 
honey ? 


55 


ONLY 38 

Lucy. Why — yes — er 

Mrs. Stanley. Got it at Langham’s at a bargain 
sale. 

Lucy. But — Mother 

Mrs. Stanley. (Calmly heading her off) Just 
raise the window shades a bit, will you? ^Lucy 
goes to the window at l. to obey . Bob and Sydney 
Johnson come in. Mrs. Stanley rises and puts , 
out her hand.) So, this is Bob’s new friend, Sydney 
Johnson. We’ve heard such a lot about you, Mr. 
Johnson. ('Sydney takes her hand.) 

Sydney. Pleased to meet you, Miss Stanley. 

(Looking at her with awkward admiration. Mrs. 
Stanley chuckles delightedly. Bob shows 
amazement. Lucy shows displeasure.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Thank you — but I’m Bob’s 
mother. This is my daughter. I think you must 
have been born in Ireland, Mr. Johnson. 

Sydney. (Much embarrassed) No’m, Water- 
bury. Now I look at you, I can see you’re old, older, 
I mean. Must have been the light, I guess. 

Mrs. Stanley. That’s it — the light. Lucy thinks 
our chintz is too dazzling. Well, we’ll all have some 
tea now. Do sit down, please. (She sits. Sydney 
sits near her.) You like yours sweet, I suppose? 

Sydney. Yes, please. 

Mrs. Stanley. Hot water? 

Sydney. Yes, please. 

Mrs. Stanley. And cream? 

Sydney. Yes, please — er — I mean, yes. 

Mrs. Stanley. There you are. (She hands him 
his tea and goes on making tea for the others. Bob 
hands her hers when it's ready.) So you live in 
Waterbury. 

Sydney. Yes, please — er — I mean yes. 


56 ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, that’s a very big city, isn’t 
it? 

Sydney. Oh, yes, ninety thousand last census — 
must be ninety-one by now. My father was mayor 
three years ago. 

Mrs. Stanley. Really! Isn’t that splendid! 
Well, how do you like college so far? 

Sydney. All right — I guess. 

Mrs. Stanley. Not homesick? 

Sydney. Oh, no’m. I was in prep, school three 
years before I came to college, so I kind of got used 
to it, I guess. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes, of course. Have you 
any brothers and sisters ? (Bob rises and passes the 
tea things.) 

Sydney. One brother — he’s only ten and two sis- 
ters. One of ’em married — that’s Grace. She lives 
in Boston. Her husband’s a banker. (Bob throws 
% napkin at Lucy.J 

Mrs. Stanley. I see, and what are you going to 
do when you leave college ? 

Sydney. I don’t know yet. My mother wants me 
to be a minister. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh 

Lucy. (Trying to edge into the conversation) Oh, 
that’s so interesting. My father was a minister, 
you know. 

Sydney. (Turning to her a second) That so? 
(Then hack to Mrs. Stanley quickly.) My mother’s 
a Baptist. She wants me to be a Baptist minister. 

Lucy. (Trying again) My father was a Metho- 
dist minister. 

Sydney. That so? I’d like to be a lawyer — only 
it takes so long. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes — it does, doesn’t it? 

Sydney. Why, you have to go to a law school 
three years. Sometimes I feel like I just want to 
go out and do something quick. 


ONLY 38 57 

Mrs. Stanley. Of course, of course— I under- 
stand. Bob, won’t you pass the biscuits. (Bob does 
so. Sydney takes a handful and stuffs his mouth 
with them.) Do you like your professors, Mr. 
Johnson ? 

Sydney. Ah, they’re all right, I guess. Old Billy 
Ap is a character, though. 

Mrs. Stanley. Billy Ap! 

Sydney. Yes’m. His right name is William 

Hark ^Bob nudges him on arm and offers him 

the biscuits.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Just another drop of tea, Mr. 
Johnson? 

Sydney. Thanks, don’t care if I do. It’s awfully 
good. 

Mrs. Stanley. Very glad you like it. I hope 
you like it well enough to come in for more quite 
often. 

Sydney. Oh, I’ll do that, you bet. I’ll probably 
be so thick around here you’ll have to sic the dog 
on me. Mother says I haven’t got much sense that 
way. If I like anybody I’m liable to bore ’em to 
death. fLucY rises. He empties his cup at a gulp.) 

Mrs. Stanley. ( Getting more and more self- 
conscious as her realization of Lucy’s disapproval 
becomes more and more acute.) Oh, really, Mr. 
Johnson, you can’t expect me to believe that. We 
can’t quite swallow that, can we, Lucy? 

Lucy. (Pretends she has not heard) I beg your 
pardon ? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, nothing — nothing. (The con- 
versation languishes. A pause. Then Mrs. Stan- 
ley says suddenly.) Er — -you won’t have some more 
tea, Mr. Johnson? 

Sydney. No, thanks, really. (Another long 
pause.) I — I guess I’ll have to be getting along. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, please don’t hurry 

Sydney. (Rising) Well, I’ve got some things 


58 ONLY 38 

to do before supper. And it don’t pay to be late at 
the boarding-house — because if you’re late you only 
get what’s left and then you — well, then you under- 
stand why it is left, all right. 

Mrs. Stanley. ( Giving him her hand ) Do come 
again soon. 

Sydney. Yes, indeed. Sure, I will. Good-bye, 
Miss Stanley. So long, Bob. (He starts for the 
door, drops his napkin , picks it up, stuffs it in his 
pocket like a handkerchief, and finally manages to get 
himself out of the room.) 

Mrs. Stanley. (Turning to the twins) Such a 
nice friendly boy, isn’t he? (The twins are look- 
ing rather queer and say nothing.) Well, my dears, 
what’s the matter? 

Bob. Look here, Mother, I — I asked old Syd 
here to meet Lucy and then he 

Mrs. Stanley. To meet both of us, I hope, dear. 

Bob. Well, of course. But to meet Lucy any- 
way — ’cause she’s in his class — and he don’t say six 
words to her. 

Mrs. Stanley. Are you blaming me, dear? 

Bob. Well, I don’t know — but you — well, you 
don’t look the way you used to, somehow — nobody 
every took you for Lucy before. 

Mrs. Stanley. Don’t be absurd. Nobody could 
possibly take me for Lucy. The boy was just a lit- 
tle embarrassed, that’s all. 

Bob. Well, anyhow, he just stuck around you like 
— -like a bee ’round a jelly tumbler and you never 
gave Luce a look-in. 

Mrs. Stanley. Come here, my dears. (She gets 
them with an arm about each.) Sydney will see 
Lucy often. It won’t take him long to learn that 
I’m only a little old lady. But he’ll like this house 
all the better because I tried to make him feel at 
home in it the first time he came and didn’t treat 
him like a little boy. I don’t want your friends to 


59 


ONLY 38 

be scared of your mother, and besides, don’t you 
want your old mother to look as young as she can? 
Don’t you want people to like her? 

Bob. Of course we do. Only — only — you do 

look so young. It kind of sticks me. 

Mrs. Stanley. Does it? 

Bob. Yes. I can’t seem to dope it out. 

Mrs. Stanley. Can’t you? 

Bob. No. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, suppose you run along and 
think it over. I want to talk with your sister. 

Bob. All right, but I can’t seem to make it out. 
(Shaking his head as he walks out. Exit r.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Lucy, dear, you see, don’t you? 
(Lucy still averts her gaze and says nothing — she 
sobs. Her mother is suddenly frightened and makes 
an appeal.) Why, my darling! My darling! 

Lucy. (Suddenly puts her head on her mother's 
shoulder) Oh, Mother, I’m such a fool. 

Mrs. Stanley. There, there, dearest. What is 
it? What is it? 

Lucy. I don’t know. That’s why it’s so silly. 
But sometimes — I feel as if suddenly I didn’t know 
you at all. And it’s so strange — why, Mother, it’s 
terrible — and I — I get so frightened. 

Mrs. Stanley. Dearest, I didn’t know you felt 
like this. How could I guess? 

Lucy. Well, I do, Mother. Isn’t it silly of me? 

Mrs. Stanley. No, dear, not a bit. It’s just be- 
cause I’m not quite the person I used to be. I’m 

changing a little Oh, I know it — and, of course, 

that’s why you feel as if you didn’t know me as well. 
Lucy, dear, the fact is I’m growing a little younger — 
isn’t is disgusting of me? 

Lucy. Mother ! 

Mrs. Stanley. I — I can’t seem to help it some- 
way. But I’ll try harder, dear. I really will. 


60 ONLY 38 

Lucy. But, Mother, I didn't know a person could 
grow younger. 

Mrs. Stanley. Neither did I, dear, but it seems 
it's possible. I wish everybody could do it. 
Wouldn't it be nice, dear, if we could all be born 
very old and grow steadily younger and stronger and 
handsomer and happier until 

Lucy. Yes, Mother, until 

Mrs. Stanley. Why, dear me ! Then we 
wouldn’t ever die until we got to be babies, would 
we? 

Lucy. (Laughing) Ho! Ho! Ho! Mother, you 
silly dear! 

Mrs. Stanley. And then when you did anything 
foolish I could say to you: “You’ll know better than 
that, my dear, when you’re as young as I am.” 

Lucy. Mother, what queer notions you do get. 

(Enter Bob, in excitement.) 

Bob. Mother, here’s old Giddy coming in the gate 
right now. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, dear, you run and let him 
in, Lucy. 

Lucy. Oh, Mother, are my eyes all red? 

Mrs. Stanley. No, dear, just nice and shiny, 
that’s all. (Rather hesitatingly Lucy goes out 
into the hall.) Bob, run and get some more hot 
water, and another cup. I suppose professors drink 
tea. ( Gives Bob the hot water kettle.) 

Bob. Sure — I’ll be back in a jiff. (He goes out 
at r. Mother has a second to primp her hair, etc. 
Then she hears the voices in the hall.) 

Professor. Good afternoon, Miss Stanley, is your 
mother at home ? 

Lucy. Oh, yes, sir. Won’t you come right in, 
please ? 

Professor. Surely. 


ONLY 38 61 

fLucY and Professor come in. The Professor is 
a youngish man, about forty years old , well 
built, masculine, humorous, vital — in no way 
the comic stage professor. His hair is closely 
cropped and his clothes well cut. If you met 
him on Fifth Avenue he would not seem in the 
least out of place.) 

Lucy. Mother, dear, this is Professor Giddings. 

Professor. How are you this afternoon, Mrs. 
Stanley ? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, splendid, thank you. (They 
shake hands.) 

Professor. You’ve been well since I saw you 
last? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes — ever since this morn- 
ing. 

Professor. Just to insure my welcome, I’ve 
brought this magazine for your daughter. ( Gives it 
to LucyJ And this for your more frivolous self. 
( Gives Mrs. Stanley a box of candy.) I hope you 
like sweets? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes — I adore them. Thank 
you so much. ( Opens the box.) Perhaps you’ll help 
eat them, professor? 

Professor. Thanks, no — none for me. ( Goes up 
c. Bob enters r.J 

Mrs. Stanley. Lucy ? ( Offers her the candy.) 

Lucy. ( Stiffly ) No, thank you. 

Mrs. Stanley. (To Professor ) Do sit down, 
please. 

Professor. Thank you. My, how you have im- 
proved — (he surveys it) — this room since I was here 
last. 

Mrs. Stanley. (As Lucy winces) Well, we’ve 
done our best with it. (Enter Bob with hot water 
kettle.) You know my son. 


62 ONLY 38 

Professor. Oh, yes. How are you, Stanley? 
(Shakes hands.) 

Bob. Fine, sir, fine. 

Mrs. Stanley. (They all sit) You’ll have tea, 
I hope? 

Professor. Please — just tea — rather strong. (She 
makes it and Bob hands him the cup.) 

Lucy. (Recovering herself a bit and trying to 
take charge of the conversation ) Oh, Professor Gid- 
dings, it’s so nice of you to bring me the magazine. 
I loved that poem so when you read it in class and 
I did so want to copy it. Thank you so much. 

Professor. No trouble at all, I assure you. I 
was coming here anyway. 

Lucy. (With a gulp) Oh! 

Mrs. Stanley. (With a look at LucyJ Do light 
the fire, Bob. It’s growing a bit chilly. ("Bob lights 
the fire.) 

Professor. And how do you like college life, Mrs. 
Stanley? A little dull for you? 

Mrs. Stanley. Er — have you ever lived in Leb- 
anon, New Hampshire? 

Professor. Why, no. 

Mrs. Stanley. Compared to Lebanon, New 
Hampshire, this is the metropolis of the world. 

Professor. Indeed ! I confess I’ve never thought 
of it in that light. 

Mrs. Stanley. Lebanon, New Hampshire, is the 
land where it is always afternoon. 

Professor. How jolly! No one has to get up 
in the morning. Always afternoon. Perhaps Miss 
Stanley can tell us where that quotation comes from? 

Lucy. ^Bob passes cakes to Lucy ) I — I’m afraid 
I can’t. 

Mrs. Stanley. Tennyson — “The Lotos Eaters.” 

Bob. Mother! How did you know? 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, I spend three hours a day 


ONLY 38 63 

in the library. Tell me, Professor Giddings, you 
adore your work of course? 

Professor. Yes and no. Take my class room 
now. It’s a good deal like fishing. There are days 
when you can’t get a single bite. 

Mrs. Stanley. Bite? 

Professor. Yes. I throw out ideas, you know — 
like bait, in the hope that someone will rise to them. 
If they don’t I try another kind, just as you do for 
the fish. 

Mrs. Stanley. I hope my two little fish bite 
well. 

Lucy. Mother, I will not be a fish. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, but think, dear, a sweet little 
speckled trout. 

Professor. (Trofesor and Mrs. Stanley laugh ) 
One of the prettiest things in the world. 

Lucy. (Trying to make them serious) Tell me, 
professor, who do you think is the greatest living 
poet? 

Professor. Charles M. Schwab. 

Lucy. What ! 

Professor. Charles M. Schwab of the Bethlehem 
Steel Co. 

Lucy. Well! 

Professor. He dreams wonderful dreams and 
makes them come true. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, that is poetry. Some more 
tea? 

Professor. Yes, please. 

Lucy. Tell me, professor, what do you think is 
Wordsworth’s greatest poem ? 

Professor. I’d rather you made up your own 
mind about that. ("Lucy rises.) The business of 
a professor, Mrs. Stanley, should be not to give his 
pupils ideas but to help them to form their own. 
Don’t you think so? 


6 4 


ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. Precisely. 

Professor. Very few people really think. Most 
people’s ideas are second-hand — and very much worn 
at that — all the buttons off — out at the elbows — 
really not fit to wear at all. 

Mrs. Stanley. And then there’s the man with 
one idea. 

Professor. He’s positively naked. He ought to 
be locked up. But I mustn’t talk shop. Tell me, is 
there anything I can do to make you more comfort- 
able at Sinclair? We old settlers, you know — we 
know all the ropes. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, no, thank you — we’re be- 
ginning to feel quite at home and everyone is so 
kind. 


("Lucy quietly steals out of the room.) 

Professor. By the way, you were going to tell me 
if you would like a card to the fall reception that 
Dr. and Mrs. Adams are giving next week. 

Mrs. Stanley. Why, really — I 

Professor. Oh, I know — you said you didn’t 
know them — but they’re old friends of mine and I’ll 
see that you get a card, if you like. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well — really — I don’t know 

quite what to say. Lucy, dear, do you think I’d 

(She turns, sees Lucy has gone, gives a sigh.) 
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! 

Professor. Eh! What’s the matter? 

Mrs. Stanley. Bob, go out and see what’s be- 
come of your sister. (Bob goes out.) Poor Lucy ! 

Professor. I — don’t understand. 

Mrs. Stanley. Poor child! I — I’m afraid she 
thought you were coming to see her. And naturally 
she was flattered. 

Professor. Oh! (A little flattered himself.) 


ONLY 38 65 

Mrs. Stanley. Girls are very silly about pro- 
fessors, you know. 

Professor. (A bit jolted) Oh — thanks. 

Mrs. Stanley. You’re quite welcome. I didn’t 
have the heart to disillusion her. I — I’m afraid I 
hoped she wouldn’t find out. I’m a stupid mother, 
I guess. 

Professor. ( A little embarrassed ) It — it’s rather 
ridiculous, isn’t it? 

Mrs. Stanley. Is it? 

Professor. I mean you wouldn’t want me to 
come to see her, would you ? 

Mrs. Stanley. (Sharply) Certainly not. (A 
pause.) She is eighteen and you are 

Professor. Forty. 

Mrs. Stanley. Exactly. I want her to have a 
wonderful time for the next few years with all the 
nice little boys. I want — oh, I want her to savor her 
youth to the full — as — I — as I did not. 

Professor. Tell me — please — would it — I mean — 
I don’t want to hurt you in any way — I mean I 
wouldn’t for the world re-open any old wounds — but 
I would like to know such a lot about you and I know 
so little— except what my eyes can tell me. But you 
seem to be a person who was intended for so much 
happiness and sunshine — and yet 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — that’s it — <( and yet” 

(Pause.) You don’t know how strange all this new 
life seems to me. I seem almost to be moving in a 
dream. And I don’t know whether to go on dream- 
ing or really wake up for good. 

Professor. I think you’re going to wake up. 

Mrs. Stanley. I wonder. 

Professor. I understand from what you told me 
the other day — that your husband was much older 
than you. 

Mrs. Stanley. Twenty-three years. 

Professor. A quarter of a century. 


66 


ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, my, it sounds so much worse 
when you say it like that. 

Professor. You must have married very young. 

Mrs. Stanley. I wasn’t quite eighteen. Lucy 
was born when I was just twenty. 

Professor. And your husband — tell me what he 
was like? 

(^Mrs. Stanley rises, goes to the horse-hair sofa, 
and after a moment's thought takes off the slip- 
covers.) 

Mrs. Stanley. He was like this. 

Professor. I see. Honest, uncompromising. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes. (The Professor goes and 
sits on the sofa.) 

Professor. A bit grim, not very comfortable — 
full of character — a little hard — and not, well, not 
very gay. 

Mrs. Stanley. Not very. For him life was real, 
life was earnest and it’s only proper business was 
the preparation for the next. 

Professor. I have no quarrel with that view, 
but a bird in the hand, you know. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, I know. I fear I’m a Pagan 
after all. 

Professor. My dear lady, I see that you have 
camouflaged this ancient sofa a bit — and I draw from 
that a certain inference. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes? 

Professor. Won’t you let me help you? 

Mrs. Stanley. Help me what? 

Professor. Help you to wake from the dream of 
the past ten years. You have eyes in which the sun- 
shine lingers and a mouth that was made for smil- 
ing. Let me encourage the sunshine and the smiles. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Timidly) It doesn’t seem as if 
there could be much harm in that. 


6y 


ONLY 38 

Professor. No, indeed. 

Mrs. Stanley. And — yet — no — I’m afraid. 

Professor. Afraid of what? 

Mrs. Stanley. First of all, I am a mother. 

Professor. But you are so young. Why, you 
look as if your daughter might almost be your 
younger sister. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — I shall have to do some- 
thing about that. I wish she were my sister. 
Daughters are so strict. 

Professor. I don’t understand. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, I had rather a scare just 
now. My children — I’ve given my life to them and 
I — I just can’t lose them — I mustn’t. 

Professor. Lose them? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — lose their love and their re- 
spect. The fact is, to them I’m a middle-aged 
woman — the widow of a Methodist minister — all 
their lives the dignity of that position has been 
drilled into them. To them I’m settled — I’m just 
their mother and their father’s widow and I can 
never — I must never — be anything else. 

Professor. But surely — surely — you can’t mean 
that — why it’s nonsense. 

Mrs. Stanley. I wish it were — but it isn’t, I’m 
afraid. You see, I’ve been through deep water with 
my children — rather deep and rather cold — and I’ll 
do anything in this world not to lose them — anything. 
And if I must put away all else — for them — if I 
must shut the door on all the things of youth that 
I’m just beginning to learn to love all over again — 
for them — and just learn to be a little old lady be- 
fore my time — for them — why, I’ll do it — I’ll do it if 
I must. (A pause — suddenly.) Yes — take these 
flowers, please. I’ve no business to wear them. 
(Gives them to him.) 

Professor. Ha! (He gets up and prowls about 
a moment.) 


68 


ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh ! I don’t know why I’m talk- 
ing like this. I never talked so much about myself 
to anyone in all my life. 

Professor. Don’t you know why you’ve done 
it? 

Mrs. Stanley. No — I don’t. 

Professor. Then I’ll tell you. It’s because I un- 
derstand you and you knew I would. 

Mrs. Stanley. Then perhaps you’ll help me. 

Professor. Of course I will. 

Mrs. Stanley. My hair’s so awfully I sup- 

pose I’ll have to make it gray. Where do they sell 
hair dye? At a drug store? 

Professor. I never heard such nonsense in my 
life, and if you think I’m going to put up with it — 
look here, I’m going now — and I won’t come back till 
I’ve thought of some way out of this. 

Mrs. Stanley. Such as what? 

Professor. Lord! I don’t know — but I’ll think 
of something — a man’s brain must be made for 
something. Why, you poor daffodil — just poking 
your little head above the ground in the Spring — do 
you think I’m going to stand by and see you frost- 
bitten ? Not much. 

Mrs. Stanley. Spring! I’m afraid there’s not 
much of that about me. 

Professor. Indeed there is. Spring comes late 
some years and this is a late season and not only 
for you — for me, too. Had you thought of that? 

Mrs. Stanley. W-what? 

Professor. Oh, you hadn’t. You selfish woman ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Eh! 

Professor. That’s what I said, selfish. Just 
look around you, daffodil. Don’t you see the lone- 
some crocus just beside you? If you are frost- 
bitten, how shall he escape? 

Mrs. Stanley. Poor crocus ! I’m sorry for you, 


ONLY 38 69 

but I didn’t make you come up in all this frosty 
Spring weather 

Professor. (Almost shouting) Ah, didn’t you? 
Who did, then ? Do you think crocuses go about look- 
ing for frost? Not much, daffodil, not much. Just 
you wait. (He claps on his hat and is about to 
rush out.) 

Mrs. Stanley. (Checks him) No. You mustn’t 
go like that. 

Professor. (Filled with a sudden hope that she 
has changed her mind) Oh, you dear 

Mrs. Stanley. (Checking him) No — I don’t 
mean that. I wish I did — but — I don’t. I mean 
you mustn’t go with any hope that I shall change, 
for I shan’t. I can’t. 

Professor. Oh, surely — you 

Mrs. Stanley. No — never — my two babies have 
lain so snug in my heart so long — the only things 
that have kept it warm at all — just now — these last 
few days — they’ve stirred uneasily in their nest and 
— well, you can’t know how it hurt. It mustn’t hap- 
pen again — it can’t. And so, when you go — you 
mustn’t come back any more. 

Professor. Ah, you don’t mean that? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, I do. 

Professor. Not even as a friend — as your best 
friend? 

Mrs. Stanley. If you really are my friend 

Professor. Do you doubt it? 

Mrs. Stanley. No — no — and that is why you 
must never come back any more. Don’t you see — 
it is the only thing you can do for me. 

Professor. Oh — is it ? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes. 

Professor. Look here ! What kind of a man do 
you think I am? 

Mrs. Stanley. Eh! 

Professor. I’m head over heels in love with you 


70 


ONLY 38 

and you tell me that all I can do for you is to go 
away and bury myself. 

Mrs. Stanley. Why, I never said anything of 
the 

Professor. And it isn’t as if you didn’t love me — 
for I think you do. 

Mrs. Stanley. I — oh ! Do you ? 

Professor. Can you look me in the eye and say 
you don’t? 

Mrs. Stanley. Of course I can, if I want to. 

Professor. (Smiling and approaching her hope- 
fully) Ah! 

Mrs. Stanley. (Avoiding him) No — no 

Oh — what’s the use — what’s the use? 

Professor. (Beginning to lose his temper) Very 
well, then — it’s come to this — you’re going to throw 
your life away, are you? 

Mrs. Stanley. What? 

Professor. That’s what it amounts to. You’re 
going to ruin your life and mine for those two lit- 
tle — brats. 

Mrs. Stanley. Brats! 

Professor. Well 

Mrs. Stanley. Brats ! 

Professor. (Trying to mollify her) Well, of 
course, I don’t mean that 

Mrs. Stanley. Brats! Brats! My offspring! 

Professor. I withdraw the word, but the fact is 
they’re a pair of little despots and I’d like to put 
them both over my knee and spank them. 

Mrs. Stanley. You look here, now, if there’s 
any spanking done in this family, I’m going to do it. 

Professor. It’s a bargain ! Shake hands on it. 

Mrs. Stanley. Why, a month ago I’d never even 
seen you and now you’re going to beat my children. 

Professor. Oh, I say now 

Mrs. Stanley. Heavens! What an escape! If 


ONLY 38 71 

you're like this now, what would you be after I’d 
married you. 

Professor. (More angry) Aren’t you going 
pretty fast? I haven’t asked you to marry me. 

Mrs. Stanley. What ! 

Professor. No. I have not. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, I’ll like to know what you 
call it. 

Professor. I only said 

Mrs. Stanley. You with your daffodils and 
crocuses. 

Professor. I only said I loved you. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, and now you want to beat 
my children! 

Professor. (Bewildered) Lord! I think I’d bet- 
ter go. 

Mrs. Stanley. I think so, too. 

Professor. I’ll write to you when you’re 

Mrs. Stanley. I won’t read it. 

Professor. I’ll call again to-morrow. 

Mrs. Stanley. I won’t see you. 

Professor. Good lord, woman! Where’s your 
generosity, where’s your common sense — where’s my 
hat? (Exits.) 

Sanborn. (Enters) Who’s that young man, 
Nellie? 

Mrs. Stanley. That — oh, that’s Mr. Crocus. 
(Crossing l.) 

Sanborn. Kinder het up, wan’t he? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes. 

Sanborn. Nellie, what’s the trouble? What’s 
the matter? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, Father, why must the Spring 
time come in the Autumn? 

Sanborn. Look here, Nellie, ain’t you getting just 
a little mite mixed up? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, that’s just the trouble. 

Sanborn. Couldn’t ye — couldn’t ye tell me all 


72 


ONLY 38 

about it? (Shakes her head.) Couldn’t give me no 
idea? (She shakes her head.) Ain’t nobody been 
getting gay? (She shakes her head.) ’Cause if they 
is, they’s a little life left in the old man yet, I guess. 
Don’t want anybody licked ? ( She shakes her head.) 
Say, I’ll bet a cookie that feller’s tryin’ to get you to 
marry him. That it? Gosh! Well, Nellie? 

Mrs. Stanley. He’s gone. I drove him away. 

Sanborn. Well, of course if you don’t like the 
feller 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, what’s the use — it’s too late. 

Sanborn. Too late. 

Mrs. Stanley. I can never be anything but a 
mother. My two babies won’t let me. 

Sanborn. Well, Nellie, them babies of yourn 
ain’t always goin’ to be babies. Couldn’t you sort 
of hold off for three or four years till ye got ’em 
weaned an’ then 

Mrs. Sranley. Yes — and then I shall be a middle- 

aged woman Just now it’s my Indian summer 

and you know how brief that is. 

Sanborn. No, Nellie, it’s only your spring time. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — and in a flash it will be 
winter. Winter when nothing matters. Winter 
when everything is over. 

Sanborn. Now, Nellie, I hope you ain’t acting 
foolish. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Rises) Of course I am — but I 
can’t help it. 

Sanborn. Now, Nellie 

Mrs. Stanley. I suppose I’m just plain stupid. 
If I were clever, I wouldn’t be in this mess. There’s 
a lot of nonsense talked about mother love — and in 
a way it’s a remarkable thing. It’s indestructible, 
but it isn’t always sensible. It isn’t always wise for 
a mother to sacrifice herself for her children. It 
isn’t always best even for the children. But we do 



“Only 38” 


Act 3 

















✓ 





























ONLY 38 73 

and I suppose it’s because, after all, that’s the thing 
that satisfies us the most. 

WARNING . 

Sanborn. Well, Nellie, I guess it’s a thing I 
dunno much about. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Sits chair l. of table r.c.J No. 
As a rule, fathers don’t. 

(Enter Bob — shakes hands with Sanborn .) 

Bob. Hello, Grandpa! I didn’t hear you come 
in. 

Sanborn. ’Tain’t to be wondered at. The feller 
that went out, when I come in, was a lot noiser 
than me. 

Bob. Oh, you mean old Giddy. Say, Mother, 
ain’t he a peach? 

Mrs. Stanley. Do you think so? 

Bob. I sure do! 

Mrs. Stanley. He wants to spank you. 

Bob. ("Lucy starts downstairs) What? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes. You and Lucy. 

Bob. Well — of all the Well — Heaven is my 

witness. 

Lucy. Look here, Mother, I want to speak to 
you. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, I think you better speak 
to your grandfather. Don’t you see him? 

Lucy. Hello, grandfather — Mother, I just got to 
talk to you about something. 

Mrs. Stanley. Not now please. 

Lucy. But I got to. I just can’t wait. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to — 

Lucy. But, Mother, I’ve just got to 

Mrs. Stanley. I know perfectly well what you 
want to say and I won’t hear one word of it. 

Lucy and Bob. Why, Mother! 

Mrs. Stanley. Not one word. I’m sick to death 


74 


ONLY 38 

of the whole business. You can stay here and talk 
to yourself, your grandpa or the moon. I don’t 
care a rap which. I’m off. 

Lucy. Mother ! 

Bob. But, Mother, where are you going? 

Mrs. Stanley. I’m going up to my room and 
smoke that cigarette. 


CURTAIN 


ACT III 

Scene I : Same as Act II. 

Time: Some weeks after Act. II. 

On the wall, we see Dr. Spalding's picture, 
replacing the Japanese print. Also (t Evening 
Prayer " is back on the table where stood Dona- 
tello's ef Laughnig Boy." 

At Rise : Discovered Lucy staring up at Dr. Spald- 
ing's picture. As she does so, a banjo is heard 
playing in the hall. 

Lucy. (Going up to entrance) Oh, for heaven’s 
sake, do stop that thing! 

Bob. (Off stage) I thought you liked it. 

Lucy. Well, I’m tired of it. Just because 
grandpa gave it to you, that’s no reason for playing 
it all the time. 

Bob. ( Off stage ) Oh, all right. 

(Enter Bob.J 

Lucy. Look here, Bob, who put that picture 
back? 

Bob. (Staring at the picture) Search me. 

Lucy. You didn’t do it? 

Bob. Nope ! Heaven is my witness. First I’ve 
seen of it. 

Lucy. Then it must have been mother. 

Bob. (Sees Family Group back on the table) 
Gosh! There’s that thing back again, too. I 
75 


76 ONLY 38 

stuck it down cellar behind the coal bin. Say, 
Lucy, don’t they look like the old scratch? 

Lucy. Well — I don’t really think — they look 
quite — appropriate. 

Bob. Poor old mother — well — she’s stuck ’em 
back here because she thinks we want ’em.. And it’s 
all your fault. 

Lucy. Bob Stanley ! 

Bob. Heaven is my witness. You know perfectly 
well you acted as if somebody’d desecrated father’s 
grave. 

Lucy. Bob Stanley, I don’t know how r you can 
stand there and say such stuff. 

Bob. Look here, Luce, something’s the matter 
with mother. Haven’t you noticed it? 

Lucy. Well, yes — I 

Bob. She’s moping about something. What d’ye 
s’pose it is? 

Lucy. How should I know? 

Bob. Well, it’s something. Haven’t you got any 
idea? 

Lucy. Well, perhaps I have. 

(Enter Mrs. Stanley with an armful of fresh 
linen. She wears her old black gown again 
and looks as she did in Act I. Twins do not 
see her.) 

Bob. What is it? 

Lucy. I — don’t think I’ll tell you. 

Bob. Oh, now, Luce. 

Lucy. No — I wouldn’t put such an idea into your 
head unless I was sure — because — well — it’s just 
awful. 

Bob. Luce ! 

Mrs. Stanley. Is your room all ready for 
grandpa, Lucy? You know he’s coming back to- 
day. 


H ONLY 3 g 

Lucy. Yes, Mother. 

Mrs. Stanley. All right, dear. (She starts to 
go out.) 

Bob. (After vainly motioning to Lucy to start 
the inquiry) Look here, Mother. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, dear? 

Bob. What did you go and put these old things 
back for? (Indicating the picture and Evening 
Prayer.”) 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, those — why, I thought you’d 
like it. (Suppressing a smile.) I only want to 
please you, you know. 

Bob. Look here. Mother, we’re kind of wor- 
ried about you. 

Mrs. Stanley. My goodness! What for? 

Bob. Are you sure you’re all right? 

Mrs. Stanley. All right? 

Bob. Yes. You’re not sick or anything? 

Mrs. Stanley. No — indeed. Why? 

Bob. Well — we only thought you — well — we 
thought you’d been kind of queer and — well — kind 
of down in the mouth lately — and we — well — we 
just wondered — that’s all. 

Mrs. Stanley. Nonsense! I’m all right. You 
don’t expect me to go around grinning all the time, 
do you? 

Bob. No-o-o But 

Mrs. Stanley. You mustn’t expect an old lady 
like me to act like a girl. You wouldn’t like it, 
would you, Lucy? 

Lucy. (A little uncomfortable) Well — I 

Mrs. Stanley. No — of course, you don’t want 
anyone to think mother’s queer. I’m all right. 
Mothers must grow old, you know. (Door bell 
rings.) See who it is. 

fBoB and Lucy run out into the hall to see who 
the visitor is. Mrs. Stanley has time to look 


78 


ONLY 38 

up at Dr. Spalding's picture with a rueful smile 
of triumph before the twins come back with 
Grandpa. The old man carries a brand new 
suitcase, wears a new suit of New York clothes, 
a red tie, and is pretty nearly smothered by the 
collection of assorted bundles he carries. Lucy 
and Bob ad lib as they usher in Mr. Sanborn.) 

Sanborn. Well, well, Nellie, how be you? ('Mrs. 
Stanley gives him a kiss.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, I’m fine. Here, let’s take 
your things. Why, you look like an expressman. 

('Mrs. Stanley and the twins take the bundles, suit- 
case, hat and coat.) 

Sanborn. (As he sees them eyeing him) What’s 
the matter? 

Mrs. Stanley. Your tie. 

Sanborn. (A little shamefaced) Yep. Tis kind 
of loud, ain’t it? (He fingers the tie.) It was give 
to me by a friend. Guess I’ll have to shed it be- 
fore I git to Worthington. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, do sit down, Father, and 
tell us all about New York. (They all sit.) 

Sanborn. Well, Nellie, it’s quite a place. Gimme 
that box, Bobby — the biggest one. ('Bob gives it 
to him and he opens it as he talks.) Picked up a 
little sovenoor for ye, Nellie. Thought it might 
come in handy. (He takes out a handsome set 
of furs.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Father! You darling. (She 
puts them on.) Oh, children, aren’t they wonder- 
ful ? 

Bob. Swell — all right. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father! How sweet of you. 

Sanborn. Do you like ’em? 

Mrs. Stanley. Like them! Why, Father! All 
my life I’ve dreamed of having a set of furs. 


ONLY 38 79 

Sanborn. (Indicating another box to Bob,) 
That’s yours, Bobby. 

Bob. Mine! (He begins to open it.) 

Sanborn. Yep. Guess it’ll fit ye. Near enough. 
Hope so, anyhow. 

Bob. (Producing a Persian wool sweater jacket ) 
Well, Heaven is my witness ! 

Sanborn. Try it on — if it don’t fit I can send it 
back. I hope it fits. ('Bob takes off his coat and 
tries on sweater.) How is it — eh? 

Bob. Just right. 

Mrs. Stanley. How on earth did you ever think 
of it, Father? 

Sanbobn. Well, there’s a little sense left in the 
old man yet, I guess. That’s yours, Lucy. ('Lucy 
opens a third box.) 

Lucy. Oh, Grandpa ! 

Sanborn. Had quite a time gettin’ that — quite 
a time, I tell ye. (Lucy produces her present . She 
suddenly unfolds it. It turns to be a dainty silk 
nightgown.) 

Lucy. (All blushes) Oh, Grandpa! ('Mother 
and Bob laugh delightedly.) 

Sanborn. What’s the matter? Don’t ye like it? 

Lucy. Oh — yes — it’s lovely — only 

Sanborn. Silk, begosh — both on ’em. ’Nother 
one in the box. (Xucy pounces on it.) Had quite 
a time gettin’ them things. (He grins reminis- 
cently.) Young woman I bought ’em of seemed to 
enjoy herself considerable. 

Lucy. Oh — they’re lovely, Grandpa ! 

Sanborn. Well, now — d’ye calc’late they’re worth 
— a kiss — on the old man’s withered cheek? (Xucy 
gives him a hearty hug and kiss.) There! That 
pays the bill, I guess. 

Lucy. I’m going right upstairs to try them on. 

Sanborn. Not both of ’em to onct? 

Lucy. Oh — no ( She exits up the stairs.) 


8o 


ONLY 38 

Sanborn. Hope they fit. Young woman I bought 
’em of seemed to think they might. I kind of asked 
her advice — I ain’t had a great deal of experience 
in that line myself. 

Mrs. Stanley. Bob, take grandpa’s bag up to his 
room. 

Bob. Sure — sure I will. 

Sanborn. (Anxiously, the idea being that it con- 
tains bottles) Go easy with that bag there, Bob. 

Bob. (Looks at it) Say, get on to the initials. 

Sanborn. Yep — that’s on the latest things in 
New York, they tell me. 

Bob. Gee! It’s heavy. 

Sanborn. Well, they ain’t no gold bricks in it. 
("Bob exits.) Did Bob get the banjo, Nellie? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, indeed. It’s such fun. He’s 
learning to play it. But do tell me all about it. 
Father. You must have had a splendid time. 

Sanborn. Well, Nellie, I give Noo York quite 
a scrapin’. (He takes out a cigar — produces a 
silver cigar lighter and elaborately lights up. Blows 
out a cloud of smoke.) 

Mrs. Stanley. I suppose that’s another Lillian 
Russell. 

Sanborn. Nope — this cigar is a John Drew. 

Mrs. Stanley. But do tell me all about New 
York. 

Sanborn. Nellie, it’s quite a place. (Reminis- 
cently.) 

Mrs. Stanley. I suppose so. 

Sanborn. Yes — quite a place. 

Mrs. Stanley. Where did you stay? 

Sanborn. I put up at the Waldorf Astory. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father — you didn’t? 

Sanborn. Yes, of course I did. It’s about three 
hundred times as big as the court house up to Worth- 
ington. First few days I darn near got lost in the 
rooms there. 


ONLY 38 81 

Mrs. Stanley. How did you ever find it? 

Sanborn. Went there in a taxicab from the depot. 
I told the young man to drive me there. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh! Yes, of course. 

Sanborn. Them taxicabs is great — little automo- 
bile they be — got clocks on them — clock’s got a face 
sits up lookin’ at ye all the time an’ every few seconds 
it says ten cents more. First few days I darn near 
ruined my health watchin’ that blamed clock. Then 
I see if I was going to have any fun at all, I’d have 
to learn myself not to look at the cussed thing. So 
I done it — had to — ridin’ round all the time like I 
was. 

Mrs. Stanley. You didn’t have to ride all the 
time. Why not walk? 

Sanborn. Didn’t dast to. **Fraid I’d git lost, or 
run down or somethin’. 

Mrs. Stanley. But what did you do — where’d 
you go — what did you see? 

Sanborn. Well, Nellie, I didn’t see Lillian Rus- 
sell. I was a little too late. The poor thing’s dead, 
they say. But I guess I seed most everything else. 
I seed Theda Bara! Yes — sir-re! 

Mrs. Stanley. Did you see Dr. Parkhurst? 

Sanborn. Well, I guess I did. Heard him 
preach one Sunday mornin’. Looks a good bit like 
his picture. 

Mrs. Stanley. What did he preach about? 

Sanborn. Well, now, Nellie, I don’t know. Fact 
is — well — I guess I kind of dozed off. 

Mrs. Stanley. You went to sleep in church! 
Father ! 

Sanborn. I know, Nellie, I guess I’d ought to 
be ashamed o’ myself, but I couldn’t seem to help 
it. You see, I was up awful late the night before. 
I went to see a queer kind of show they call the 
Midnight Frolics. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father ! 


82 


ONLY 38 

Sanborn. Up on top of a roof ’twas — music and 
dancin’ and carrying on an’ such things. Girls sing 
a song — then they’d come down to the tables where 
we were settin’ an’ ask you to hook up the back 
of their dresses. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father ! 

Sanborn. Yes, that’s how I felt. It made me 
feel uncomfortable. An’ one day I went up in the 
Woolworth Tower. Gosh ! Them elevators. When 
I got to the top I thought certain sure I’d left my 
stummick down on the sidewalk. But the things I 
see from the top — it made me think of that place 
in the Bible where the Devil took the Lord up to 
that high place and showed him all the powers and 
principalities of the world. 

Mrs. Stanley. Did you see the Brooklyn Bridge ? 

Sanborn. Well, I guess I did. Stock Exchange, 
Aquarium, Coneys Island. One night I went to see 
that Yankee Doodle Dandy feller, George M. 
Cohan. 

Mrs. Stanley. You did? 

Sanborn. Yes. Great little feller. I’d kinda 
like to know him. Oh, Lord, Nellie, the things I 
done in that village. Makes me dizzy when I think 
of ’em. 

Mrs. Stanley. Father, what was the finest thing 
you saw in all New York? 

Sanborn. Well, Nellie, I guess it was General 
Grant’s tomb. You know, Nellie, your grandfather 
fought with Gin’ral Grant. I remember readin’ in 
the Springfield Republican years ago when they put 
the old Gin’ral in that big tomb. It’s a great big, 
round granite thing — last till the day o’ Doom, I 
should think. The old Gin’ral’s buried down in a 
sort of pit at the bottom of it an’ you stand up 
there behind a railin’ and look down at it. I guess 
I must have stood there an hour. All them old days 
was goin’ through my head. The day we heard your 


ONLY 38 83 

grandpa was killed at Petersburg. The day we 
heard Abraham Lincoln was shot — oh, things I 
hadn’t thought of fer a long time. An’ the grim 
old Gin’ral sleepin’ away the years down there — 
well — somehow he seemed to stand for it all. It 
kind of stirred me up an’ made me feel kinda weepy 
and proud — proud of my father and the country 
he died for. 

Mrs. Stanley. I’m so glad you went, Father. 

Sanborn. Well, I guess so. An’ to-morrer, I’m 
a-goin’ back to your Aunt Fanny and the old farm 
an’ I s’pose I shan’t never stir a peg off it again. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, I don’t know. 

Sanborn. No. Don’ s’pose I shall. But I’ve 
been out among ’em. Alius wanted to — and now 
I’ve been. Ah! Hum! (He heaves a deep sigh 
of satisfaction.) Well, Nellie, how be you? 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, I’m all right. 

Sanborn. Happy? 

Mrs. Stanley. Of course. Why not? 

Sanborn. Seemed to me the last time I seed 
ye, you was kinda (Door hell rings.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Who can that be? (She looks 
out the window toward the porch.) It’s a man, 
Father. You answer the door — tell him I’m not in. 
(She is clearly much perturbed and goes hastily to 
the door leading to the dining-room.) Well, you 
can tell him what you please — only I won’t see him. 

Sanborn. Who is it? 

Mrs. Stanley. It’s Mr. Crocus. 

(She escapes almost hysterically into the dining- 
room. Sanborn, after a moment's quizzical 
hesitation , goes out and a moment later is heard 
greeting the Professor . ) 

Professor. (Heard off stage) How are you? 


84 ONLY 38 

My name’s Giddings. I suppose* you’re Mrs. Stan- 
ley’s father? 

Sanborn. Yes, I s’pose I am. Step right in, 
won’t ye? 

Professor. Thanks. 

(A pause. Enter Professor and Sanborn.J 

Sanborn. I’m sorry — but my darter ain’t in. 
She — she’s jest gone down to the village to do some 
shoppin’ — or — or — somethin’. 

Professor. Thank you — but the person I wish 
to see is Miss Stanley. 

Sanborn. ( Surprised ) I want to know. 
Professor. Exactly. 

Sanborn. Oh — excuse me — my mistake. 
Professor. Is she in? 

Sanborn. Oh, yes — she's to home. I’ll get her 
down for ye, right off. (He goes to the stairs and 
calls up.) Lucy — Lucy! You got a caller. Lucy! 
(No answer from above.) Guess I’ll have to go up 
an’ route her out. You see, she’s busy tryin’ on 

(He goes upstairs. Left alone , the Professor looks 
about — presently he sees Dr. Spalding's picture. 
This puzzles him , then he sees <c Family Group." 
He cogitates a moment , then he sees the point 
and smiles rather ruefully. As he does so, 
Lucy comes down the stairs.) 

Bob. ( Corning down the stairs behind Lucy and 
is seen crossing to hall door) Tell mother I’ve gone 
to see old Syd, will you, Luce? 

Lucy. All right. 

Professor. (As she advances into room, he goes 
and takes her hand ) How do you do, Miss Stanley ? 
Lucy. I’m very well, thank you. Grandpa said 


ONLY 38 85 

you asked for me. Of course, I know he’d got it 
mixed up but he would have it. I’ll go and call 
mother for you. 

Professor. Oh, then she’s at home! 

Lucy. Why, yes. 

Professor. Oh! Nevertheless, it is you I asked 
for. 

Lucy. Me ? 

Professor. And you I want to see. (A pause.) 
Please sit down. (Hesitatingly Lucy sits armchair 
l.c.) Miss Stanley, I have called to ask your per- 
mission to pay my addresses to your mother. ( Lucy 
rises with a gasp.) Now, don’t be frightened. Please 
sit down — please. (Lucy sits again.) There is no 
occasion for alarm. You are quite in control of the 
situation. It is going to be just as you say: (A 
pause.) May I go on? 

Lucy. I — I suppose so. (She is most uncom- 
fortable.) 

Professor. I have not been able to see your 
mother for two solid weeks. I have called repeat- 
edly. She will not see me. I have written her 
three letters. She answered only one. Will you 
read it? (Offers the letter to her.) 

Lucy. No — thank you — I’d rather not. 

Professor. Then I will. (Reads.) “My dear 
Professor Giddings : Of course, I know that you did 

not mean to call them bra ” Excuse me, oh, 

here’s the place. “You are very, very kind but it 
is all no use. My children are all the world to me 
and I must try, it seems, to be as old as they think 
I am.” Do you understand what she means? 

Lucy. No — not exactly. 

Professor. Miss Stanley, how would you feel if I 
were to ask you to marry me? 

Lucy. (Rising in alarm) Professor Giddings! 

Professor. Now don’t be afraid. I’m not go- 
ing to. If I did, how would you feel? 


86 


ONLY 38 

Lucy. I guess I’d be frightened. (Sits.) 

Professor. Your mother was married when she 
was as young as you are now. 

Lucy. Ye-e-s. 

Professor. And to a man as old as I am. In 
other words, I am old enough to be your father. 
And I wish I were. I am two years older than your 
mother. Have you any respect whatever for my 
judgment? 

Lucy. Why — of course. 

Professor. Then perhaps you’ll bear with me 
for a moment. I’m quite aware you find this in- 
terview a painful one. I do myself and yet — Miss 
Stanley, surely you do not intend or want that all 
your mother’s future life shall be devoted to being 
your mother. (A pause.) Had it occurred to you 
that you may some time marry and have a home of 
your own — and your brother, too? What’s going 
to happen to your mother then ? 

Lucy. My mother will always have a place in 
my home, Professor Giddings. 

Professor. Of course. But is a place in some- 
one’s home — even in the home of one we love — 
ever quite the same as one’s own home? She’d al- 
ways be just your mother. Do you really want her 
to be — always nothing but that? 

Lucy. (With a touch of defiance) She’d be a 
lot better off being just my mother than being just 
your wife. 

Professor. (With a smile) There may be some- 
thing in that. However (He turns to Dr. Spald- 

ing's picture and Family Group.) Is it your mother’s 
taste, may I ask, that is represented by that picture 
and that — er — decoration, there? (Tucy drops her 
eyes.) Just as I thought. (Sits.) Really, Miss 
Stanley, aren’t you just a bit of a tyrant? ( Sits on 
chair beside Lucy. Lucy makes a movement of 
protest.) Now I know you don’t mean to be. But 


ONLY 38 87 

doesn’t that letter I read to you give you a glimpse 
of your mother’s heart that you have never seen 
before? 

Lucy. (With something like a sob ) My mother’s 
the sweetest mother in the world. 

Professor. I quite agree with you. She is the 
dearest person I have ever known. She ought to be 
the happiest person in the world. Do you think she 
is? 

Lucy. I know she loves me very dearly. 

Professor. She does indeed. She loves you so 
much that, if you say the word, she’ll turn her back 
on everything and everybody else for you. If you 
say the word, she’s willing to spend the rest of her 
life in being just your mother. If you say the 
word, she’s willing to put away all the brightness 
of life that might be hers and grow old many years 
before her time — if you say the word. Are you go- 
ing to say it? 

Lucy. Oh! I think you’re perfectly horrid. 
(Trying not to cry.) 

Professor. I’m sorry. 

Lucy. I want my mother to be happy just as 
much as you do. And she was happy, too — till you 
came along and spoiled everything. 

Professor. Indeed ! 

Lucy. Yes. 

Professor. Spoiled everything — come now, what 
have I spoiled? 

Lucy. I wish she’d never seen you. 

Professor. She need never see me again, if you 
say the word. I shall never come between you and 
her. You know as well as I do that, if I did, she 
would never forgive me. No — if I ever come to her 
again it is you who must bring us together. That’s 

all, Miss Stanley (Rises.) There’s a football 

game this afternoon. You’re going, I suppose? 
(She nods yes.) With some young man? ( She 


88 ONLY 38 

nods.) Not your brother, I presume. (She shakes 
her head.) Is your mother going? 

Lucy. ( Shakes head.) 

Professor. Ah, I see. Very well. I am going 
now. And I put myself in your hands. I have pro- 
cured two seats for the game. If you like, you 
may tell your mother that I shall call for her at two 
o’close precisely. But if, in the meantime, I hear 
nothing from you, I shall know you have not told 
her and I shall not call. Good-day. (Starts to go. 
He meets Bob coming in with Johnson.,) Ah, good 
morning, Stanley — good morning, Johnson. 

Bob and Sydney. Good morning, Professor, 
etc., etc. 

Professor. Of course you’re going to the game? 

Syndey. Oh, yes, sir. Aren’t you? 

Professor. (With a look at Lucy ) I don’t know 
— yet. 

(He exits, followed by Bob acting as host.) 

Sydney. (Smiling self-consciously) How do? 

Lucy. (Still shaken by the preceding interview) 
Oh, I’m all right. 

Sydney. (Dimly sensing something strange ) 
Anything — er — anything wrong ? 

Lucy. (Making an effort) Oh, no — no, indeed. 
Please sit down. (Lucy sits on couch. Sydney on 
the chair l.c.J 

Sydney. Great day for the game. 

Lucy. Yes. 

Sydney. Thought I’d come in — just to — just to 
say I’d come ’round for you a little early. Going to 
be some crowd, you know. 

Lucy. Yes, I suppose so. 

Sydney. I like to get there early. Then we can 
see ’em practice. 

Lucy. Yes. (A pause.) 

Sydney. Anything wrong? (Sits on couch.) 


ONLY 38 


89 


Lucy. No — no. 

Sydney. You could tell me, you know. 

Lucy. Yes — I know. (A pause.) 

Sydney. You wouldn’t look at me in class to- 
day. 

Lucy. Oh, please, Syd 

Sydney. Have I done anything? 

Lucy. No — no — oh, no. 

Sydney. Then 

Lucy. Oh, please don’t ask questions. It isn’t 
anything to do with you. 

Sydney. Anything I could do? 

Lucy. No — nothing anybody could do. I’m a 
little pig — that’s what I am, and there’s nothing 
anybody can do about it. 

Sydney. Lucy! (Timidly takes her hand, then 
suddenly in a wave of self-consciousness lets it go 
again.) Er — great day for the game. 

Lucy. Yes. 

Sydney. I’m awfully glad you’re going with me. 

Lucy. I’m afraid I shan’t be very good company. 

Sydney. Best in the world for me. 

Lucy. Oh, you don’t know me. 

Sydney. (Ironically) Is that so! 

Lucy. I’m just a selfish pig. 

Sydney. Say, you can just knock off on that kind 
of stuff. D’ye think I’m going to sit here and — 
and — well, I’m not — that’s all. 

Lucy. Don’t see how you’re going to help it. 

Sydney. Why, you’re just the very nicest 

Lucy. Oh, you mustn’t talk like that. 

Sydney. Well, I guess I better go. 

(They both rise. He looks at her a moment. Sud- 
denly he gives her a very boyish, awkward 
kiss.) 


9 o ONLY 38 

Lucy. Syd! (She draws away from him.) Oh, 
Syd! 

Sydney. Well — I — I just couldn’t help it. (She 
turns her back on him and looks out of the win- 
dow. Her bosom heaving.) I’m sorry! Now, I 
s’pose you’re awfully mad at me. Well, I don’t 
blame you. 

Lucy. No — no — I’m not mad — but I guess you 
better go. 

Sydney. Can I — can I come back? I mean, you 
will go to the game with me ? 

Lucy. Yes. 

Sydney. Lucy! (He advances toward her 
quickly.) 

Lucy. No, Syd, no ( Crossing to r.c.J Please 

— you must go — I — I’ve got something to do. Oh, 
I’m not mad at you — but you’ve got to go now — 
you’ve just got to go. 

Sydney. All right. (Going.) I’ll do anything 
you say. All you’ve got to do is crook your little 
finger. 

Lucy. Oh ! Syd ! You are nice. 

Sydney. Luce! (He meditates another advance 
on her , but she checks him.) 

Lucy. Oh, Syd, please — please go. 

Sydney. All right! All you got to do is crook 
your little finger. 

SLAM. 

(He exits. The outside door closes behind him. 

Lucy hesitates — half between smiles and tears. 

She goes to the door and calls at r.J 

Lucy. Mother — oh, Mother 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, dear? 

Lucy. Will you please come here? 

(Enter Mrs. Stanley . ) 


ONLY 38 91 

Mrs. Stanley. Just a moment, dear. (Enter. 
Lucy crosses to l.) What is it, dear? 

Lucy. Mother, don’t you want to go to the foot- 
ball game? 

Mrs. Stanley. Why, darling? 

Lucy. Don’t you? 

Mrs. Stanley. (Timidly) Why, do you think 
it would do? 

Lucy. Oh, Mother, everybody does it. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes, dear, I know. I’d love it — 
all the pretty girls dressed up in their best — and 
the crowds and the flags and the cheering — and the 
singing Oh, I’d love it, but 

Lucy. Mother, Professor Giddings wants you to 
go with him. 

Mrs. Stanley. Lucy ! 

Lucy. He’s going to call for you at two o’clock. 

Mrs. Stanley. Lucy, dear! 

Lucy. Yes, Mother. 

Mrs. Stanley. No — I’ m afraid it wouldn’t do. 

Lucy. Oh, Mother, please go — please. 

Mrs. Stanley. You — you really want me? 

Lucy. Oh, yes — yes, I do. 

Mrs. Stanley. You nice — offspring. Perhaps — 
no — we’d better leave things as they are, my dear. 
Mothers had better stick to their jobs, I think. 

Lucy. Oh, Mother — don’t — don’t make me feel so 
like a worm. 

Mrs. Stanley. Darling! What’s got into you? 

Lucy. Mother — I’m such a pig. 

Mrs. Stanley. But dearest, you can’t be a pig 
and a worm, too. 

Lucy. Yes, I can — because I am. Oh, Mother, 
it used to make me mad when you called me a child 
— but I was one — just a silly, silly child — but I’m 
not going to be one any more. 

Mrs. Stanley. What are you going to be? 

Lucy. I’m going to be a woman, Mother. I’ve 


92 


ONLY 38 

grown up. Oh, Mother, dear, I want you to be 
happy. I want it more than anything else in the 
world. 

Mr. Stanley. Why, my darling! 

Lucy. (In a passion of love and self-abasement ) 
Oh, Mother, dear, I hate myself — I’m such a fool 
— such a selfish little fool. But oh, Mother, dearest, 
I do so want you to be happy and if you’re not I — 
I just can’t stand it. (She throws herself in a pas- 
sion of sobbing into her mother’s arms. Mrs. Stan- 
ley sits armchair l.c. Lucy in her arms.) Oh, 
Mother — Mother, dear. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Comforting her) There, there 
— my darling — don’t — don’t — you mustn’t cry — 
mother understands — there, there — fny darling. (It 
is her baby in her arms again.) 


CURTAIN 


Scene II : Lights down. 

When the curtain rises it is late afternoon of 
the same day. The room is nearly but not quite 
dark. A plate of sandwiches covered with a 
napkin awaiting the homecomers, on table r. 
Through the window we see the last gleam of 
the Autumn sunset. Though we cannot see 
them very clearly at present, the Japanese print 
and the “Laughing Boy” are again in their 
places. Presently the outside door is heard to 
open and Lucy and Bob enter into the darken- 
ing room.) 

Bob. (Complainingly) Now look-a-here, Luce, 
what the mischief are you up to anyhow, hustling 
me home like this? 

Lucy. Oh — you hush up and turn on the lights. 

Bob. Dog-gone. We’ll miss half the fun stickin’ 
around here in the house. (He turns up the lights.) 
Everybody else out celebratin’ an’ everything. 
’Tisn’t every day we smear a whitewash on Hamp- 
shire. 

Lucy. Sit down, Bob. (Rather scared.) Bob, 
what would you say if I told you that 

Bob. Told me what? 

Lucy. I — I don’t know how to tell you. 

Bob. (Exasperated) Well, Heaven is my wit- 
ness! What’s the matter with you? 

Lucy. Bob, we — we haven’t been treating mother 
very well. 


93 


94 


ONLY 38 


Bob. What ! 

Lucy. She’s not an old lady, you know. 

Bob. Well, who said she was? 

Lucy. She’s only thirty-eight. 

Bob. Well, I know it, I guess. Did you drag 
me home just to tell me how old mother is? 

Lucy. Bob, suppose mother — suppose she — sup- 
pose — now you mustn’t get excited. 

Bob. Great Caesar’s ghost ! Luce, why can’t you 
come to the point ? 

Lucy. Well, suppose I were to tell you that — 
that mother might get married again? 

Bob. Luce ! 

Lucy. Yes. 

Bob. Well, Heaven is my witness! 

Lucy. Now, Bob, you mustn’t be angry. 

Bob. Phew ! 

Lucy. She’s got a perfect right to, if she wants 
to. 

Bob. I say, Luce, you don’t mean old Giddy ! 

Lucy. He’s not old at all. 

Bob. Luce ! 

Lucy. He’s no older than father was when mother 
married him. 

Bob. ( Collapsing ) Oh ! Boy ! 

Lucy. Now, Bob, dear, you mustn’t get excited 
about it. It’s all natural enough. 

Bob. Look here, d’you mean to say that mother 
has told you that 

Lucy. She hasn’t told me anything at all. 

Bob. Then how d’you know? 

Lucy. She hasn’t — but he has. 

Bob. What ! 

Lucy. Yes. 

Bob. (Rise) Well, I should think he ought t# 
have spoken to me. 

Lucy. Do you? 


ONLY 38 95 

Bob. Well, ain’t I the head of the family? 
What’d he say? 

Lucy. He asked my permission to pay his ad- 
dresses to mother. 

Bob. (Aghast) Well, what d’you know about 
that ? ( Crosses l.) 

Lucy. Oh, Bob, I do hope you’re not going to 
be horrid or — or — anything. 

Bob. Why, the old goat! 

Lucy. Bob, you mustn’t talk like that. 

Bob. Well, I like his nerve. 

Lucy. Oh, Bob, don’t you see, if it’s going to 
make mother happy 

Bob. But, Luce, it’s so queer. 

Lucy. What d’you mean, queer? 

Bob. Well, mother being a widow and — and well 
— you know — our mother. 

Lucy. But, Bob, you and I are grown up now. 
By and by — we — well, we might get married our- 
selves and then 

Bob. Well, I guess I could take care of mother 
anyhow 

Lucy. Of course, but 

Bob. She’d always have a home with me. 

Lucy. (Repeating the Professor unconsciously) 
Yes, of course, but having a home with someone 
isn’t quite the same as having a home of your own. 
I can’t quite see mother without a home of her own. 

Bob. Gee! It’s queer. 

Lucy. Oh, I know just how you feel. At first 
I thought I just couldn’t stand it — and then — some- 
thing happened — something queer — and — well — I 
got to thinking and I made up my mind our mother 
never’s had very much fun in her life — yet. 

Bob. Well, now you put it like that I don’t s’pose 
she’s had — had what you’d call fun. 

Lucy. Well, I think she ought to and if this — 
well — that’s the way I feel about it. 


96 ONLY 38 

Bob. Say, Luce, you’re a pretty good sort after 
all. 

Lucy. Well, that’s the way I feel. ("Bob kisses 
LucyJ 

Bob. Gee ! It’ll be queer, though. 

Lucy. Queer ? 

Bob. Yes. Going to class to recite to your step- 
father. 

Lucy. I don’t care! I don’t care for anything, 
if only it’s what she wants. 

Bob. (Helping himself to a sandwich) Gee! 
What’ll we call him? 

Lucy. That’s so. 

Bob. Sound foolish to call him professor, 
wouldn’t it? 

Lucy. Ye-s, I s’pose it would. 

Bob. And I won't call him father. 

Lucy. Of course not. He’d hate it anyway. 

Bob. I got it. We’ll just call him “Sir.” How’s 
that? 

Lucy. I guess that’s the best we can do. 

Bob. Gee! We’re funny! Sittin’ here jawing as 
if it was all over. Maybe she won’t have him at 
all. 

Lucy. Maybe not — but I bet she does. 

Bob. What makes you think so? 

Lucy. Well, I’ve — I’ve got a presentiment. 

Bob. That’s feminine for hunch. Mother as a 
blushing bride! Wow! (Sits chair r.c.J 

Lucy. But wouldn’t she look sweet in her bridal 
veil. Ah, Bob, I can just see her. 

Bob. Oh, you orange blossoms! 

Lucy. (Sighs) But of course we’ll never see her 
wearing them. 

Bob. Why not? 

Lucy. Widows never do, you know. But wouldn’t 
it be just sweet to see her dressed like that — ’spe- 


ONLY 38 97 

cialy because we weren’t there when she — when she 
— got married — for us. 

Mary. (Heard calling off r.J Oooh — ooh! 

Lucy. Now mind, don’t you tell. Not one word 
or I’ll skin you alive. (Mary Hadley enters.) 
Hello, Mary. 

Bob. My Lord ! 

Mary. Hello. 

Lucy. I thought you were with mother. 

Mary. She’s coming along. She’s invited a whole 
crowd here to have some lemonade. 

Lucy. Oh, goodness! I’ll have to hurry up and 
get things ready. (Lucy exits.) 

Bob. Gee! I’m sorry. 

Mary. What for? 

Bob. Why — skipping off and leaving you like 
that. 

Mary. Oh ! 

Bob. It wasn’t all my fault, but I’m awfully 
sorry. 

Mary. (Indifferently) Oh — that — that’s all right. 
I didn’t hardly notice you’d gone. 

Bob. (Dashed) Oh! Well, I couldn’t help it 

because Well, Lucy just dragged me home by 

main force, you see — she had something she wanted 
to tell me. 

Mary. A secret? 

Bob. Well — yes. 

Mary. ( Sits on sofa) Oh! What fun! Come 
right here and tell me at once. 

Bob. (Sits beside her) Afraid I can’t. 

Mary. What ? 

Bob. Well, if I tell you then it won’t be a secret 
any more. 

Mary. Well! I guess I can keep a secret. 
What is it? 

Bob. Sorry, can’t. 

Mary. Won’t, you mean. 


9 $ 


ONLY 38 


Bob. No-^can’t. 

Mary. Oh! (Hurt.) Well, if that’s how you 
feel — all right for you. 

Bob. Oh, Mary, for heaven’s sake, don’t get 
sore — please. 

Mary. I’m not. 

Bob. Yes, you are, too. 

Mary. I’m not. I don’t care about your old 
secret. 

Bob. You know I’d tell you if I’d tell anybody 
in the whole world. 

Mary. Would you? 

Bob. I’ll say I would. 

Mary. Honest ? 

Bob. Honest Injun! (She goes close to him and 
he takes her hand.) 

Mary. Oh, you are a nice man, aren’t you? 

("Bob meditates kissing her , hut as he hesitates the 
crowd comes in. Bob goes out at R. Lucy 
enters.) 

Lucy. Come right in — come right in, folks — 
tea’ll be ready right away. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, so here you are — we thought 
we’d lost you. (Mrs. Stanley wears her new furs 
and under them the pretty dress that came from New 
York. Her yellow hair is done up smartly, her eyes 
are bright and laughing. She looks ten years 
younger. All the others are in high spirits, too. 
Several of them, headed by Grandpa, carry the col- 
lege flag of Sinclair — green, with a big white S dis- 
played upon it.) Well, do take off your things, 
please. Father, won’t you just light that fire? 

Sanborn. Why, sure, Nellie (He does so and 

presently the room is full of firelight, and laughing 
young people.) 

Sydney. I say, Lucy, can’t I help you? 


ONLY 38 99 

Lucy. You can go and see what’s become of 
Bob, if you like. 

Sydney. (Dashed at being sent away) Oh, all 
right. ( Goes out r.J 

Mrs. Stanley. Please, everybody, do sit down 
and make yourselves at home. Oh ! Wasn’t it fun ? 
I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself so much. 

Jim. Some game, what? Twelve to nothing. 

Charlie. That last touchdown, Professor — 
wasn’t that a peach? 

Professor. It certainly was — young Taylor ran 
that ball down sixty yards if it was a foot. 

Mrs. Stanley. And such cheering. I couldn’t 
hear myself think. Oh, but I do hope that boy 
wasn’t hurt much. 

Professor. Oh — you mean Walker — no, nothing 
serious, I think. 

Alice. I thought his leg was broken. 

Jim. No — just a sprained ankle. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, I couldn’t tell what was 
going on most of the time — but I liked it. ( Enter 
Bob and Sydney with the hot water.) What did 
you think of it, Father? 

Sanborn. Looked like a free-for-all fight to me. 

Professor. Did you like it? 

Sanborn. I liked watchin’ it a blame sight bet- 
ter’n I’d a liked doin’ it. 

Bob. (To the Professor J Great game, sir, wasn’t 
it, Sir! 

Professor. Splendid. Never saw a better. 

Lucy. ( Offering him a sandzvich ) Will you have 
a sandwich, Sir! 

Professor. (Sensing a hidden meaning. Puzzled) 
Why — er — thank you. ("Bob and Sydney hand the 
tea around.) 

Sanborn. Professor, d’you mean to tell me most 
of them boys won’t be laid up for a week or so? 


100 


ONLY 38 

Professor. Oh, no, they’ll all be around to-mor- 
row — except perhaps the sprained ankle chap. 

Sanborn. Well, they certainly make ’em tough 
nowadays, don’t they? 

Jim. I guess that’ll hold Hampshire for a while. 

Sydney. Fellow from my town’s a Hampshire 
man. Always telling me what they’d do to us. Wait 
till I see him — that’s all. 

Charlie. Oh, you twelve to nothing! 

Bob. I think I’ll try for the team next year. 

Sanborn. Oh — hold on there, Bob. 

Bob. Oh — I know I’m under weight now — but I’ll 
be bigger next year. (To Professor. ) Don’t you 
think so, Sir? 

Professor. Very probably. 

Sanborn. There was one feller there smaller than 
you be, Bobbie. 

Bob. Oh, yes, Spike Andrews, our quarterback. 

Sanborn. Yes, he was just about big enough for 
a quarterback, I should think. 

Sydney. Some little catamount, that Spike. 

Sanborn. ’Bout as big as a pint of peanuts. 

Lucy. (To JimJ Have a sandwich, Jim? 

Jim. Sure ! I could eat a walrus. 

Alice. ( Giggling ) Now, Jimmie, behave. 

Mrs. Stanley. Look here, now, why can’t we 
have a little singing? 

Lucy. Oh, yes — yes! 

Professor. Song of the classes — why not? You, 
Johnson? Heard you warbling on the Chapel steps 
the other evening. 

Mrs. Stanley. So did I. You were remarking 
that “You loved your love in the Springtime, you 
loved your love in the Fall.” 

Sydney. (Blushing) Oh, say now! (^Professor 
gets the banjo from the table and sits l.c.J Lord! 
I can’t sing. (Ad lib from all the boys and girls , 


IOI 


ONLY 38 

urging Sydney to sing. He sings.) When Fresh- 
men first we came to town 

All. Fol-de-rol — de-rol — rol — rol. 

Sydney. Examinations made us frown. 

All. Fol-de-rol — de-rol — rol — rol. 

Here’s to good old Sin-Sinclair. 

Fol-de-rol — de-rol — rol — rol. 

Here’s to good old Sin-Sinclair. 

Fol-de-rol — de-rol — rol — rol. 

Sydney. As Sophomores we’re lazy chaps. 

All. Fol-de-rol, etc. 

Sydney. Electing all the easy snaps. 

All. Fol-de-rol — de-rol — rol — rol. 

Here’s to good old Sin-Sinclair, etc. 
Sydney. In Junior year we take our ease. 

All. Fol-de-rol, etc. 

Sydney. In smoking pipes and singing glees. 
All. Fol-de-rol, etc. 

Sydney. In Senior year we play our parts. 

All. Fol-de-rol, etc. 

Sydney. Then out into the world we go. 

All. Fol-de-rol, etc. 

Sydney. To glorify our college so. 

All. Fol-de-rol, etc. 

Jim. Now — three cheers for old Sinclair 

One — two — th r ee . 

All. S— I— N— C— L— A— I— R, 

Ah, E. A. Ah — E. A. Ah 

Yea — Varsity. 

Professor. Now — “Alma Mater/’ Please — just 
one verse — altogether. 

(The whole crowd now sings “Alma Mater.” The 
song is a fine simple college anthem — full of 
feeling and melody. It is, in fact, the anthem 
of Brown University, slightly adapted. It 
runs as follows ) : 


102 


ONLY 38 


All. 

“Alma Mater, we hail thee with loyal devotion 
And bring to thy altar our offerings of praise, 
Our hearts swell within us with loyal emotion 
As the name of Sinclair in loud chorus we raise. 
The happiest moments of youth's fleeting hours 
We pass 'neath the shade of these time-honored 
walls. 

And sorrows as transient as April's brief showers 
Have clouded our lives in those dear college halls." 

Jim. (The first to discover the bonfine outside) 
Hey! Look-a that, will you? 

Sydney. Gee ! The Sophs have started the bon- 
fire already. 

Lucy. Oh, let's all go and see it. 

Alice. Oh, let’s — let’s 

The Others. Sure — hurry — come on, etc. 

(The young folks all depart in a babel of high 
spirits.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Lucy, don’t forget your rubbers. 

Lucy. (Disgusted) Oh, Mother 

Mrs. Stanley. Now, Lucy 

Lucy. Oh, Mother 

Sydney. Oh, Luce, do hur-ree up! 

("Lucy runs out. Her mother turns with a smile 
of cheerful resignation to the Professor. As 
she does so , Lucy darts in again.) 

Lucy. Oh, Mother, won’t you come, too? 

Mrs. Stanley. No, thanks, dear. (Xucy sud- 
denly throws her arms about her mother , gives her a 
hearty hug and kiss.) Why, you darling offspring! 

Lucy. (With half an eye on the Professor J 
Well, I — I just thought I would! (Then like a 
whirlwind she is gone.) 


ONLY 38 103 

Bob. (Embraces mother) Won’t you come alone 
Sir? (Exits.) 

Professor. (To Sanborn,) Wouldn’t you like 
to go and see the bonfire? 

Sanborn. Oh, I guess not. 

Mrs. Stanley. Well — someone’s got to. 

Sanborn. Eh ? 

Mrs. Stanley. Why — er — I mean — someone’s 
got to go and tell those children not to forget to 
come home to supper. 

Sanborn. (He looks at his daughter curiously, 
is puzzled at first, then he sees that she wants him 
to go) Oh, yes — I guess I do want to see a bon- 
fire. Come to think of it, I ain’t seen a bonfire in 
a good many years. (He gets into his overcoat helped 
by the Professor. Then he sits again on the couch.) 
Not since I used to go skating on the mill pond 
moonlight nights when I was a boy — and we all used 
to fight to strap on Daisy Miller’s skates for her. 
There was somethin’ about strappin’ on Daisy Mil- 
ler’s skates ! Hum ! Poor Daisy, been dead for thirty 
years, I guess. We used to sit around the bonfire an’ 
toast something or other. Let me see. What was 
it, now. 

Mrs. Stanley. Marshmallows ? 

Sanborn. Yes, guess ’twas. An’ ask each other 
how big the moon looked to you. Ever play that 
game, Professor? 

Professor. Oh, yes. Adam and Eve used to 
play it, I think. 

Sanborn. (Getting to the door) Daisy always 
used to say it looked as big as a barrel-head to her — 
never looker no bigger’n a quarter of a dollar to 
me. 

Mrs. Stanley. (As the old man seems to forget 
he's going out) Don’t forget supper at half-past 
six. 

Sanborn. (Absently) Hm! 


104 


ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. Supper at half-past six. 

Sanborn. (Recalling himself , with a start, to 
the present. Rises.) Oh, yes, I get the idea. (A 
pause. He looks after the departed young folks.) 
Pretty nice children you got there, Nellie. 

Mrs. Stanley. Oh, yes, they’re darlings. 

Sanborn. Pretty nice mother they’ve got, too. 

Mrs. Stanley. Now, Father. 

Sanborn. Best one they’ll ever have, anyway. 
(A pause.) Well! (He puts on his hat and takes 
himself off.) 

Professor. (After a pause, approaches Mrs. 
Stanley and looks down upon her.) Well, Mrs. 
Daffodil? 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, Mr. Crocus? 

Professor. Not quite so frosty as it was, is it? 

Mrs. Stanley. (With a little choke in her voice ) 
Are you going to talk about the weather? 

Professor. Why not? It’s life or death to 
Daffodils and Crocuses. Isn’t it? 

Mrs. Stanley. I — I suppose so. 

Professor. Oh, you dear thing! 

Mrs. Stanley. Please, please, oh, please 

Professor. Am I making you unhappy? 

Mrs. Stanley. I never was so happy in all my 
life, and I want to hold it just so, for a little while. 
Ah! I suppose you won’t understand. 

Professor. Try me. 

Mrs. Stanley. Life’s suddenly grown so beau- 
tiful. It’s like — like a flower that’s just blossomed — 
all at once — in my very hands — and I want to hold 
it there — just as it is — as long as I can. 

Professor. What kind of a flower? 

Mrs. Stanley. I don’t know — a pansy, I guess — 
it’s so wistful — yesterday it wasn’t there at all and 
to-morrow it will be faded, perhaps, but just for 
to-night — I want to press it close to my heart and 
keep it there for a little while. 



Only 38 ” See page 101 












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ONLY* 38 105 

Professor. Then, so you shall. 

("Lucy and Bob and Grandpa, hiding behind cur- 
tain suddenly turn out lights.) 

Mrs. Stanley. It’s those dear brats. ("Profes- 
sor stands near her in the firelight.) 

Professor. Have a heart. 

Bob. Oh, come on, Grandpa, the bonfire will be 
over in a minute. 

Sanborn. Coming right along. (Door slam. 
After a pause.) 

Mrs. Stanley. I’ve dreamed of this. (A pause.) 
Haven’t you ever — sometimes out walking in the 
country, come suddenly around a turn in the road 
and there was the loveliest sight in the world — a 
little silver lake — or a hillside — with the sunlight 
on it — something so beautiful that it just kind of 
took your breath away. Well, that’s how my life is 
to-night. I’m almost afraid to move — for fear 
something will spoil it. 

Professor. (Sits) Do you think it would be peril- 
ous if you were to let me take your hand? 

Mrs. Stanley. We might try it. (She gives him 
her hand.) 

Professor. ( After a pause ) Is it all right — so far ? 
(She nods and he lifts her hand to his cheek.) 

Mrs. Stanley. Nobody ever did that to me be- 
fore. It rather scares me. (He lets go her hand.) 
That scares me worse. ( He takes it again.) 

Professor. You don’t know how wonderful it is 
to be here with you in your home — just the two of 
us — alone. 

Lucy. Don’t go in, Grandpa. ( Off stage l.) 

Sanborn. (Off stage) I wan’t going in. 

Mrs. Stanley. (Raising her voice to call) Lucy, 
I thought you’d gone. 

Lucy. (Off stage) Well, I had to go and hunt 
for those old rubbers, didn’t I? 


io6 ONLY 38 

Mrs. Stanley. Well, I hope you found them. 

Sanborn. (Offstage) Yes — we found ’em. 

^Mrs. Stanley and the Professor exchange a smile 
of surprise and comprehension.) 

Lucy. (Offstage) Come along, Grandpa. We’ll 
be late. 

Sanborn. (Offstage) Yes. Don’t want to miss 
anything. (The door is heard to close behind them.) 

Professor. Alone at last! (They resume their 
former positions. He takes her hand again. She 
hunts around for her handkerchief with her free 
hand and dabs at her eyes.) Why, you’re not cry- 
ing? 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes. 

Professor. Oh, my dear. 

Mrs. Stanley. Yes — I am. And, oh, how I 
do enjoy it. 

(There is silence in the firelight.) 

CURTAIN 


KEY TO DIAGRAM OF ACT I 


1. Bookcase with picture hanging above it. 

2. Two old pictures standing in front of bookcase. 

3. Pile of 18 books on the floor. 

4. Haircloth couch. 

5. Haircloth armchair. 

6. Round stand with two or three books on it. 

7. Bookcase with gaps in it where books have 

been taken out. 

8. Big plush armchair. 

9. Hanging picture of Dr. Spaulding. 

10. Mantel with two candlesticks. 

11. Fireplace. 

12. Wooden box to stand on. 

13. Pile of old newspapers on floor. 

14. Bookcase partly empty. Some books on top. 

15. Waste basket with dust pan, dust cloths and 

brush. 

16. Pile of 28 books on floor. 

17. Round table, about four inches diameter. 

18. 19, 20. Single chairs, haircloth. 

21. Library table and student lamp and two or three 

books. 

22. Small round stand with wax flowers in case. 

23. Window seat with newspapers and bric-a-brac 

on it. (French window.) 

24. Single chair, haircloth. 

25. Pulpit stand with Bible. 

26. Old fashioned combination bookcase and writ- 

ing desk. 


108 ONLY 38 

27. Old picture, standing on floor. 

28. Marble-topped table with old curtains on it. 

29. Big picture standing on floor. 

30. Pulpit top. 

31. Picture hanging. 

KEY TO ACTS II AND III 
Act 2. Scene i 

1. Red armchair. 

2. Chair. 

3. Stand with vase. 

4. Table with folding top and family album and 

old model. (Rogers group.) 

5. Old picture. 

6. Armchair. 

7. Picture. 

8. Chair. 

9. Large table. 

10. Armchair. 

11. Picture. 

12. Table. 

13. Large vase. 

14. Picture. 

15. Stand with wax flowers. 

16. Old picture. (Three Graces.) 

17. Bookcase. 

18. Picture. 

19. What not. 

20. Chair. 

21. Pulpit with Bible. 

22. Mirror. 

23. Marble-topped table. 

24. Sofa. 

25. Chair. 

26. Picture on mantel. 

27. Hallway cosy corner. Clock on the mantel, 


ONLY 38 109 

candles at either end. Carpet down. Cur- 
tains on windows, etc. 

Act 2. Scene 2. CHANGED. 

Chintz covers on Nos. 1, 2, 8, 10, 20, 24, 25. 
Chintz curtains to match on Arch c. and both 
windows. 

No. 3, stand empty. 

No. 4, folding top open. 

No. 5 is a new picture. 

No. 6, back of table No. 9. 

Two vases of flowers on table No. 9. 

Sewing basket and material on table No. 9. 

No. 16, new picture. 

Nos. 15 and 16 off. 

No. 17, new model in case. (Laughing Boy.) 

No. 9, moved over slightly R. 

Large vase of flowers on No. 23. 

Act 3. Scene i. 

Chintz covers and curtains off. 

Old model on No. 4. 

Old vase on stand No. 3. 

Old picture on No. 6, in original position. 

No. 10, up r. of sofa. 

No. 15 on. 

No. 19 on. 


Act 3. Scene 2. 

Same as Act 2. Scene 2. 

Except, new model on No. 4. 

No. 8 in front of No. 9. 

Large vase of flowers on No. 23. 

Vase of flowers on No. 4. 

Banjo on No. 4. 

No. 10, almost c. between Nos. 9 and 24. 












DOROTHY’S NEIGHBORS. 

A brand new comedy in four acts, by Marie Doran, author of “The 
New Co-Ed, ’ “Tempest and Sunshine,” and many other successful 
plays. 4 males, 7 females. The scenes are extremely easy to 
arrange; two plain interiors and one exterior, a garden, or, if neces- 
sary, the two interiors will answer. Costumes modern. Plays 254 
hours. 

The story is about vocational training, a subject now widely dis- 
cussed; also, the distribution of large wealth. 

Back of the comedy situation and snappy dialogue there is good 
logic and a sound moral in this pretty play, which is worthy the 
attention of the experienced amateur. It is a clean, wholesome play, 
particularly suited to high school production, Price, 30 Cents. 


MISS SOMEBODY ELSE. 

A modern play in four acts by Marion Short, author of “The 
Touchdown,” etc. 6 males, 10 females. Two interior scenes. Cos- 
tumes modern. Plays 2J4 hours. 

This delightful comedy • has gripping dramatic moments, unusual 
character types, a striking and original plot and is essentially modern 
in theme and treatment. The story concerns the advetures of Con- 
stance Darcy, a multi-millionaire’s young daughter. Constance em- 
barks on a trip to find a young man who had been in her father’s 
employ and had stolen a large sum of money. She almost succeeds, 
when suddenly all traces of the young man are lost. At this point 
she meets some old friends who are living in almost want and, in 
order to assist them through motives benevolent, she determines to 
sink her own aristocratic personality in that of a refined but humble 
little Irish waitress with the family that are in want. She not only 
carries her scheme to success in assisting the family, but finds 
romance and much tense and lively adventure during the period of 
her incognito, aside from capturing the young man who had defrauded 
her father. The story is full of bright comedy lines and dramatic 
situations and is highly recommended for amateur production. This 
is one of the best comedies we have ever offered with a large num 
ber of female characters. The dialogue is bright and the play is full 
of action from start to finish; not a dull moment in it. This is a 
great comedy for high schools and colleges, and the wholesome story 
will please the parents and teachers, We strongly recommend it. 

Price, 30 Cents* 


PURPLE AND FINE LINEN. 

An exceptionally pretty comedy of Puritan New England, in three 
acts, by Amita B. Fairgrieve and Helena Miller. 9 male, 5 female 
characters. 

This is the Lend A Hand Smith College prize play. It is an ad- 
mirable play for amateurs, is rich in character portrayal of varied 
types and is not too difficult while thoroughly pleasing. 

Price, 30 Cents* 

(The Above Are Subject to Royalty When Produced) 


SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City 

Niw aid Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Raquast 


BILLETED. 

A comedy in 3 acts, by F. Tennison Jesse and H. Harwood. 4 
males, S females. One easy interior scere. A charming’ comedy, 
constructed with uncommon skill, and abounds with clever lines. 
Margaret Anglin’s btgf success* Amateurs will find this comedy easy 
to produce and popular with all audiences. Price, 60 Cents, 


NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH. 

A comedy in 3 acts. By James Montgomery. 5 males, 6 females. 
Costumes, modern. Two interior scenes. Plays 2 Yi hours. 

Is it possible to tell the absolute truth — even for twenty-four hours? 
It is — at least Bob Bennett, the hero of “Nothing But the Truth,” 
accomplished the feat. The bet he made with his business partners, 
and the trouble he got into — with his partners, his friends, and his 
fiancee — this is the subject of William Collier’s tremendous comedy 
hit. “Nothing But the Truth” can be whole-heartedly recommended 
as one of the most sprightly, amusing and popular comedies that this 
country can boast, Price, 60 Cents. 


IN WALKED JIMMY. 

A comedy in 4 acts, by Minnie Z. Jaffa. 10 males, 2 females (al- 
though any number of males and females may be used as clerks, 
etc.). Two interior scenes. Costumes, modern. Plays 2 Yi hours. 
The thing into which Jimmy walked was a broken-down shoe factory, 
■when the clerks had all been fired, and when the proprietor was in 
serious contemplation of suicide. 

Jimmy, nothing else but plain Jimmy, would have been a mysterious 
figure had it not been for his matter-of-fact manner, his smile and 
his everlasting humanness. He put the shoe business on its feet, won 
the heart of the girl clerk, saved her erring brother from jail, escaped 
that place as a permanent boarding house himself, ana foiled the 
villgin. 

Clean, wholesome comedy with just a touch of human nature, just 
a dash of excitement . and more than a little bit of true philosophy 
make “In Walked Jimmy” one of the most delightful of plays. 
Jimmy is full of the religion of life, the religion of happiness and 
the religion of helpfulness, and he so permeates the atmosphere with 
his “religion” that everyone is happy. The spirit of optimism, good 
cheer, and hearty laughter dominates the play. There is not a dull 
moment in any of the four acts. We strongly recommend it. 

Price, 60 Cents. 


MARTHA BY-THE-DAY. 

An optimistic comedy in three acts, by Julie M. Lippmann, author 
of the “Martha” stories. 5 males, 5 females. Three interior scenes. 
Costumes modern. Plays 2Vj hours. 

It is altogether a gentle thiiig, this play. It is full of quaint hu- 
mor, old-fashioned, homely sentiment, the kind that people who see 
the play will recall and chuckle over to-morrow and the next day. 

Miss Lippmann has herself adapted her very successful book for 
stage service, and in doing this has selected from her novel the most 
telling incidents, infectious comedy 2 nd homely sentiment for the 
play, and the result is thoroughly delightful. Price, 60 Cents. 

(The Above Are Subject to Royalty When Produced) 


SAMUEL FRENCH, 2S-30 We»t 38th Street. New York City 

1 New end Expilttt Descriptive Csirtogas Matted Free on Request 


THE REJUVENATION OF AUNT MARY. 

The famous comedy in three acts, by Anne Warner. 7 males, 6 
females. Three interior scenes. Costumes modern. Plays 2% hours. 

This is a genuinely funny comedy with splendid parts for “Aunt 
Mary,” “Jack,” her lively nephew; “Lucinda,” a New England an- 
cient maid of all work; “Jack’s” three chums; the Girl “Jack” loves; 
“Joshua,” Aunt Mary’s hired man, etc. 

“Aunt Mary” was played by May Robson in New York and on tour 
for over two years, and it is sure to be a big success wherever pro- 
duced. We strongly recommend it. Price, 60 Cents. 


MRS. BUMSTEAD-LEIGH. 

A pleasing comedy, in three acts, by Harry James Smith, author of 
“The Tailor-Made Man.” 6 males, 6 females. One interior scene. 
Costumes modern. Plays 2# hours. 

Mr. Smith chose for his initial comedy the complications arising 
from the endeavors of a social climber to land herself in the altitude 
peopled by hyphenated names — a theme permitting innumerable com- 
plications, according to the spirit of the writer. 

This most successful comedy was toured foe several seasons by Mrs. 
Flake with enormous success. Price, 60 Cents. 


MRS. TEMPLE’S TELEGRAM. 

A most successful farce in three acts, by Frank Wyatt and W8- 
liam Morris. S males, 4 females. One interior scene stands through- 
out the three acts. Costumes modern. Plays 2(4 hours. 

“Mrs. Temple’s Telegram” is a sprightly farce in which there is 
an abundance of fun without any taint of impropriety or any sle- 
ment of offence. As noticed by Sir Walter Scott, “Oh, what a 
tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.” 

There is not a dull moment in the entire farce, and from the time 
the curtain rises until it makes the final drop the fun is fast and 
furious. A very exceptional farce. Price, 60 Cents. 


THE NEW CO-ED. 


A comedy in four acts, by Marie Doran, author of “Tempest and 
Sunshine,” etc. Characters, 4 males, 7 females, though any number 
of boys snd girls can be introduced in the action of the play. One 
interior and one exterior scene, but can be easily played in one inte- 
rior scene. Costumes modern. Time, about 2 hours. 


The theme xA this play is the coming of a new student to the col- 
lege, her reception by the scholars, her trials and final triumph. 

There are three especially good girls' parts, Letty, Madge and 
Estelle, but the others have plenty to do. “Punch” Doolittle and 
George Washington Watts, s gentleman of color, are two particularly 
good comedy characters. We can strongly recommend “The New 
Co-Ed” to high schools and amateurs. Price, 30 Cents. 


(The Above Are Subject to Royalty Whan Produced) 


SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-JO West J8th Street. New York Qty 

New and Explicit Descriptive Catolepe Waited Free os Reeaeet 




FRENCH’S 

Standard Library Edition 

Includes Plays by 


Clyde Fitch 
William Gillette 
Augustus Thomas 
George Broadhurst 
Edward E. Kidder 
Percy MacKaye 
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 
Louis N. Parker 
R. C. Carton 
Alfred Sutro 
Richard Harding Davis 
Sir Arthur W. Pinero 
Anthony Hope 
Oscar Wilde 
Haddon Chambers 
Jerome K. Jerome 
Cosmo Gordon Lennox 
H. V. Esmond 
Mark Swan 
Grace L. Fumiss 
Marguerite Merrington 
Hermann Sudermann 
Rida Johnson Young 
Arthur Law 
Rachel Crothcrs 
Martha Morton 
H. A. Du Souchet 
W. W. Jacobs 
Madeleine Lucette 


Ryley 


Booth Tarkington 
J. Hartley Manners 
James Forbes 
James Montgomery 
Wm. C. de Mille 
Roi Cooper Megrue 
Edward E. Rose 
Israel Zangwill 
Henry Bernstein 
Harold Brighouse 
Channing Pollock 
Harry Durant 
Winchell Smith 
Margaret Mayo 
Edward Peple 
A. E. W. Mason 
Charles Klein 
Henry Arthur Jones 
A E. Thomas 
Fred. Ballard 
Cyril Harcourt 
Carlisle Moore 
Ernest Denny 
Laurence Housman 
Harry James Smith 
Edgar Selwyn 
Augustin McHugh 
Robert Housuxn 
Charles Kenyon 
C. M. S. McLeUan 


French’s International Copyrighted Edition con- 
tains plays, comedies and farces of international 
reputation; also recent professional successes by 
famous American and English Authors. 

Send a four-cent stamp for our new catalogue 
describing thousands of plays. 

SAMUEL FRENCH 

Oldest Play Publisher in the World 

28-30 West 38th Street, NEW YORK CITY 


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